


And Not Even The Night Sky Could Hide You

by oceans4jinyoung



Series: A Prince Becomes A King [2]
Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Indiscriminate Setting, Indiscriminate Time Period, King Mark Tuan, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past OT7, Past Relationship(s), Poetry, Prince Mark Tuan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27504604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceans4jinyoung/pseuds/oceans4jinyoung
Summary: The story continues; boys become men and a prince becomes a king.  And while King Mark is trying to wear his crown with as much stoicism as he can, the burden still weighs just as heavy on his shoulders.  The distractions of his youth are now just fleeting memories, but he still yearns for times he never had the luxury of keeping, trying to move forward when every small passing reminder is trying to pull him back.  Will he slip, tumble back into past weaknesses?  Or find a better future worth forging?
Relationships: Mark Tuan/Everyone, Park Jinyoung/Mark Tuan
Series: A Prince Becomes A King [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010094
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64
Collections: GOT7 Alive Collection





	And Not Even The Night Sky Could Hide You

**Author's Note:**

> _“Darkness falls, even the night sky can’t hide it. You’re beautiful.”_
> 
> Come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/oceans4jinyoung) and [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.me/oceans4jinyoung)!!

  
**If past be prologue...**

The waves were crashing against the shore. At least that’s how the poems Jinyoung was so fond of always described them. Crashing. The Prince tried to picture what crashing sounded like. _Louder than you might imagine,_ Jinyoung had said that night they first walked the palace halls together. Loud. He strained himself to hear the sound but the only voice that came back was his own muddled, useless wonderings. Murmured worries that buried any hope of hearing anything else.

He tried to refocus. Tried to imagine how that water would feel at his feet. Would it be cold? No, he realised. It would be warm. Warm like the person standing next to him. The hand that was in his. Warm like the whisper against his ear.

“Wake up, my Prince,” a voice spoke. Deep and smiling. A familiar sound. Not like those crashing waves that were buried under layers of vexations. No, the voice was clear, precise.

Mark twisted in his sheets, becoming aware of the press of a body against his. He turned into it, wrapping his arms around and burying his face into a firm chest.

“Mark,” the voice laughed, fingers slipping under the prince’s chin to raise it. “Come on.”

Mark blinked his eyes open, looking up into Jinyoung’s face. Seeing the handsome smile spread across his mouth. The precarious little butterflies in the space under Mark’s diaphragm took their first deep breath of the day. “Jinyoung,” he whined through a rough voice. “Why must you wake me? I was having the most wonderful dream.”

“Were you?” Jinyoung asked, moving a curl from his forehead and placing a kiss there instead. “Do tell.”

“We were standing at the ocean. Just me and you. And it was beautiful, Jinyoung,” his eyes started to close again. “So beautiful.”

Jinyoung kissed his lips, trying to rouse him. “Don’t let sleep take you again,” he whispered.

Mark whimpered, drowsy yet sweet. “Why?” he asked. “What time is it?”

“It’s nearly dawn.”

“Jinyoung, please,” he groaned, closing his eyes and trying to bury himself again. “Let’s just go back to sleep. Before Bambam comes to wake me up.”

“I assume you don’t want your surprise, then?”

Mark lifted his head, “Surprise?”

“Well,” Jinyoung sighed. “If your grace doesn’t want it-” his words trailed off as he started to rise from the bed.

Mark laced an arm around his waist, pulling him back before mustering all his strength to sit atop his lap. “Do tell.”

Jinyoung’s smile widened. Eyes panning downward to the Prince’s bare chest, tracing a finger across his skin. “We need to get dressed first.”

When both of them were properly dressed, they left the palace walls. The moon above hung heavy in the sky with the threat of dawn looming as Jinyoung walked the Prince to the stables. Inside, the air was warm with the horses’ body heat and so humid that it had Mark wrinkling his nose. Jinyoung’s horse was hitched to a stable door, dark brown with a white stripe down his forehead.

Mark looked over to Jinyoung, raising a brow. “If you are trying to give me Keats, I refuse,” he said. “He is a pest who bites everyone except you.”

“No, Keats remains mine,” Jinyoung scratched the horse between his ears, watching them twitch happily at his touch. “But we will need him where we are going.”

“Going?” Mark’s eyes went wide. Because they both knew the rules all too well. The Prince was not allowed to leave. The Prince was meant to stay confined to the palace. That was the way it had always been.

Jinyoung’s eyes twinkled, stars outshining stars in the low light. “Today, I kidnap a beloved prince.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “So, my surprise is some ruse,” he suggested, dismissively petting at the cascade of mane down the horse’s crest. “Because the King’s ward that I know hardly seems like the type to commit treason. In fact, I can count on my fingers and toes the number of times I’ve suggested leaving this place and yet-”

Jinyoung reached out, grabbing his chin and pulling it towards him. “We are not running away,” he said, firmly, letting his fingers and eyes trail downwards, toying with the loose tie of the Prince’s shirt. He shook his head. “You know I couldn’t live with myself if I kept this nation from their future king.” He looped the ties around his hand, pulling him closer. “Consider this,” he smirked. “A small trip. Just for us.”

Mark put his hands to Jinyoung’s chest, pulling away to look in his face. Study his features. “You are serious.”

Jinyoung just stared. The sparkle of his eyes relaying the same absolute certainty as the stars that refused to be hidden behind the blackness of the night sky.

Mark felt the nervous churn of his stomach. He tried to swallow it down. “Well,” he breathed, looking away to shake his curls from his face. “May I ask where my lovely kidnapper is taking me? Or is that a surprise as well?”

Jinyoung bit at the lovely smile across his lips. “Sadly, your dream already spoiled that surprise.”

Mark’s eyes immediately met his, the question held just beyond his wide-eyed stare. So hesitant that he had to ask with his mouth as well. “The ocean?”

Jinyoung nodded, slow and sure.

Mark’s mind went wild with possibilities. Some so magnificent that he couldn’t bring himself to speak them. Some so alarming that he had to. “It’s at least two days ride,” he protested. “And if the King learns of this, he will have my-”

“Mark,” Jinyoung laughed, reaching to draw his chin up again. Quieting every thought in the Prince’s mind. “The King won’t know.”

Mark blinked, all of that hesitant confusion painting his features.

Jinyoung thumbed at his cheekbone, soft and soothing. “I have made some arrangements with your friends in the palace,” he said. “They agreed to tell the King that his only beloved son is under the weather. And he will remain conveniently so until we return.”

Mark’s smile widened. “And what about yourself?” he asked. “What excuse will the King’s ward’s absence require?”

“I’m away,” Jinyoung smirked. “Retrieving some books from a library in the South at my tutors’ request.”

“The King’s ward? This nation’s future advisor? Lying to the King himself?” Mark giggled. “A crime that would surely end your career before it even begins.”

“It shall not be a lie,” he offered. “We will stop at a library before we continue onwards and meet the coast that lies beyond.”

And looking into Jinyoung’s face, Mark could see all the sincerity there that couldn’t be relegated to simple kindness. He felt himself swell with overwhelming tenderness. Mind ruminating that the amorphous idea of crashing waves had to feel something like this. He leaned closer, drawing their mouths together to press a kiss into the ward’s soft mouth. “Thank you,” he whispered, kissing him again. “You know how much this means to me.”

Jinyoung shook his head, noses brushing. “There is no one more deserving than you, Mark.”

The Prince felt the words seep deeply into his bones, warming him from the inside out. Words in place of words. Words that couldn’t be said. Because there was no point in confessing them. No lasting permanence that could be conjured by such a confession. And Mark wished so badly for the words to be an enchantment, capable of joining them together in a way that was more than just a future king and his future advisor, but he knew that wasn’t how fate worked.

“We should make haste,” Mark said, pulling away in more ways than simply physically. “Before the sun makes herself known and the guards catch sight of us.”

* * *

**...then I shall request we skip ahead.**

Some things hadn’t changed. Bambam still threw open the curtains every morning, revealing the pink dawn light flooding in from the gardens. But more days than not now, there wouldn’t be a need to rouse the King from his slumber. For these days, he would already be awake. Situated at his desk, looking over some trade deals or proposed legislation in the dying light of a candle.

“Still awake then, Your Majesty?” Bam would ask, a sigh in this throat.

“It's fine,” Mark said, a wave of his hand before extinguishing the flame in front of him with a press of his fingers. Feeling the heat of the burn for only a short moment before it passed. “I’m ready for the day.”

Bambam opened the last window of curtains. “Did you sleep at all?” he asked, looking over his shoulder. Worried eyes catching the glowing light of a new day and dispelling any hopefulness that it brought.

Mark had to look away, clear his throat. “I slept enough,” he lied, shuffling the papers on his desk together and raising them. “Have these taken to my office.”

Bambam gave him a knowing look as he took them, sitting himself on the edge of the desk. “What did Your Majesty dream of then?”

Mark’s mind briefly conjured the fading memory of the humid stables and the heavy cover of night. The stars in Jinyoung’s eyes that wouldn’t stay hidden. “I don’t dream anymore, Bam,” he lied again, finding it more difficult this time. “You should know that.”

The valet raised a brow, “I wasn’t aware that kings could not dream.”

“There’s a lot of things kings cannot do.”

The valet stared him down, like maybe he wouldn't let Mark get off so easily, before leaning off the desk, clutching the papers to his chest. “Well, hopefully a king can still bathe,” he said, forcing a smile. He beckoned towards the bathroom. “Go, sir. While I have someone run these to your office.”

Mark took his baths alone now. He did a lot of things alone. As alone as a king could be. Because there were always people there. Just beyond the door, waiting and watching his every move. And Mark was used to it by now, being handled with the most cautious of hands, of rules. Because he’d always been the heir that the country was counting on, the one who they couldn’t afford to lose. And nothing had really changed. Except now, he was the _King_ who they couldn’t afford to lose. The unspoken understanding that under King Mark’s lonesome rule there was no more hope for an heir than there was for a spring day without rain.

He lay in his bath, hearing the call of the birds outside his windows and feeling the drowsiness of his limbs weighed down by the steamy air. He sighed. When had everything become so exhausting? So heavy? Where had the days gone when he was as unfettered as those playful birds? What had clipped his wings? Who?

He couldn’t answer. Or rather, he couldn’t bring himself to.

When Mark finished his bath, he towelled off the film of lavender oil and reemerged into the bedroom. On his bed, his clothes were laid out for the day. Black trousers, white shirt, silver waistcoat, black coat. And the King absentmindedly wondered when everything had become so drained of color. When the fashion brought in from the city had moved away from silks and velvets, soft blues and pinks. Textures and colors that now seemed only fitting for waistcoats hidden under layers of dark monochrome linen and wool. And he yearned for the days before everything had become so black and white.

He looked up, watching Bambam carefully arranging a bouquet on the King’s desk. Bright sprigs of yellow flowers. “Who are those from?” he asked as he came to stand on the podium in front of the mirror.

“Who are they always from?” Bambam smiled as he let them be. He pulled the shirt from the bed, gathering the fabric in his hands, “Let’s get you dressed and ready for another day.”

Mark watched as Bambam moved around him with careful precision, fitting and tucking the clothes to his frame. “I heard Sir Yugyeom will be joining his father at the palace today,” the King noted, working the braces of his pants over his shoulders.

Bambam grabbed his arm, fixing the mother of pearl buttons on his sleeve. “You speak as if it’s relevant to me.”

Mark pulled his sleeve back, watching their gazes meet. “You may be head of house, but I am head of this sovereign state. And I know everything that goes on.”

“Fine,” Bambam conceded, grabbing the sleeve back and properly fastening it. Refusing to raise his eyes. “Maybe we have been enjoying each other’s company. And if we are, that’s hardly the crown’s business.”

Mark looked into the valet’s handsome face. Watching his tongue peek out of his mouth in concentration. He had the urge to thumb that full lip further open. But he seized up, immediately relegating that urge to something of the past, a stroke of muscle memory that his body refused to shake. That was all it was. He sighed. “To be young and in love,” he whispered.

The corners of Bambam’s mouth pulled into a gentle smile. “It was once you, remember?”

Mark shook his head. “Too long ago.”

“Before you got so old and bitter,” Bam’s nose scrunched upward as his hands stilled, hovering somewhere close to the pulse at Mark’s wrist.

Mark rolled his eyes. “I’m five years into my rule. I’d hardly consider that old.”

The breath of the man’s laugh tickled against Mark’s hand. “Then, maybe you aren’t a lost cause,” he suggested, hands reaching up to smooth down across the King’s shoulders. “Maybe you still have love to give.”

Mark’s smile fell, deadening. He swallowed. “Maybe other things have taken its place.”

Bambam’s eyebrows pulled slightly in the middle. “What could possibly take the place of love?”

“Duty, grief, resentment,” he said. “Maybe that’s but the fate of all kings. Maybe we are all destined to lose love in favor of our duty.”

Mark saw the softened look in the valet’s eyes. And it left him wondering when Bambam had stopped wishing he was royalty. When his piety towards the crown had turned to pity.

The valet licked his lips. “Your father lost your mother,” he whispered. “But who have you lost?”

It was meant to be rhetorical, but nevertheless, Mark had the name on his tongue before his next blink. He was pretty sure Bambam had the same name lingering just past the plush of his mouth. But neither of them dared speak it.

After a beat of silence that lasted too long, Bambam drew away his hands and eyes, stepping back. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” he said. “I didn’t mean to open old wounds.”

And in a passing thought, Mark wondered if they had ever really closed. Before deciding that question was rhetorical as well. “It’s fine, Bam,” he sighed. “The price one pays for not listening to their father.”

Bambam shook his head, “If you would have listened to him, then you would be married. And just as miserable as you are now.”

“I’m _not_ miserable,” he said, as firmly as he could.

Bambam stared back at him, a knowing look in the roundness of his eyes. Letting the silence speak for him for just a long enough moment before he turned, getting the waistcoat from the bed and lifting it onto Mark’s shoulders. He finished doing up the buttons, handing the King his pocket watch.

Mark went to take it, but Bambam’s grip stayed firm, not letting go. He looked up at him.

“Jinyoung sent word that he needs to see you,” Bam said, far more words than that in his gaze.

Mark pulled the pocket watch away, stuffing it into his pocket. “He can wait,” he breathed. He jumped from the podium, going to his desk and grabbing a yellow flower from the bouquet.

“Sir,” Bambam called after him. “Your jacket.”

“I won’t be needing it,” Mark spoke over his shoulder as he walked out of the room.

* * *

**Because if we were a flower field...**

“There’s a river,” Jinyoung said, pointing into the rolling hills of the countryside. “Let’s rest. Have some lunch. Keats needs a drink.”

And so they went, sitting in the tall grass and opening up the tins that Jinyoung had packed. Noshing as the ward lamented about the squished cakes he’d forgotten to pack silverware for.

But Mark didn’t care, so he just laughed, content on eating the cream and jam off his fingers.

Jinyoung stretched a map out in front of them, brows furrowing as his fingertip traced the route toward the coast.

Mark leaned against his shoulder. “Do you ever think about how all of this will be ours one day?” he beckoned to the map.

Jinyoung looked down at him. “Yours, Mark,” he smiled softly. “It will be yours.”

“Ours,” the Prince corrected. “You will help me lead.”

Jinyoung’s smile widened as his hands came up, holding Mark’s face closer and looking deeply into his eyes. “It will never be mine,” he shook his head. “It will always be yours. The land, the people, me. We will all be yours.”

Mark felt the stirring that was unique to Jinyoung’s touch. “You’re the only one I asked for,” he whispered. “You’re the only one I want.”

Jinyoung’s smile fell slightly. “But I’m not the only one who needs you.”

Mark held his gaze, the stirring turning vicious in a persistent reminder of what was imminent. He pulled his face away. “Is it even worth it?” he mused, plucking at the grass beside them. “Can a king even rule if he has a secret he hides behind?”

“Mark,” Jinyoung reached out, grabbing his hand. “I’ve studied every ruler from every line since the dawn of this monarchy. And _every_ king had secrets. Even the best ones. Perhaps especially the best ones.”

Mark looked over at him. “What is my father’s secret then?” he said, blowing his hair out his face.

“He wasn’t meant to be King,” Jinyoung admitted with no preamble.

“What?” Mark’s eyes narrowed. “He was next in line. When his father-”

“Not like that,” Jinyoung shook his head. “He didn’t have the _temperament_ to be King.”

Mark blinked, disbelieving. “When?”

“When he was young. A prince,” Jinyoung shrugged. “As a child, he was brutal. Quick to anger. Downright cruel when he couldn’t get his way. And everyone feared for the day he took the throne. Afraid the dark cast of his callous disposition would overshadow any potential for a bright, progressive rule.”

Mark struggled to understand, to picture any vision of his father that differed from that of the perfect monarch. “What changed?”

Jinyoung smiled. “He married your mother,” he said. “ _She’s_ what gave him empathy. Showed him that strength wasn’t in the power you wield against others, but your ability to bring them together. And that is the same strength he has used to build up this country, to sit on the throne with equal parts wisdom and empathy.” He squeezed Mark’s hand tighter. “And now, he sees that in you. Sees her in you.”

The Prince stared back at him, unmoving. “Who told you that?”

Jinyoung smirked, “I read letters, journal entries. Of those who helped raise him. Who saw him grow from a selfish prince to a compassionate leader. Who saw love change him for the better.”

Mark’s eyes fell, defocusing on the green grass that rustled softly in the wind. “He never told me that,” he whispered.

“Perhaps he hasn’t known how,” Jinyoung offered. “Perhaps that’s why he so desperately wants you to find a wife. So that love can change you for the better.”

Mark scoffed, shaking his head, “Love isn’t a noblewoman to paint into the background of my coronation.”

“It was to him,” Jinyoung whispered, leaning closer and gripping Mark’s hand in both of his own. “He loved your mother so much so that losing her nearly killed him. And he loves you. More than he loves this country. He’d do anything to keep you safe. Even if it meant confining you in the palace walls.”

Mark could see the genuine conviction in his eyes. “You advocate so strongly for him.”

“He’s an unprecedented leader,” Jinyoung nodded. “And an even better father.”

Mark sighed, looking out again over the field. “And to think,” he huffed. “I will be the one to try and follow that legacy.”

“You will build upon that legacy,” Jinyoung said, firmly. Raising Mark’s hand to kiss at his sticky, sweet knuckles. “And you will be perfect.”

“Not without you,” Mark shook his head. “I can’t do it without you.”

Jinyoung smiled. “You won’t have to.”

“Jinyoung,” Mark murmured. “You know what I mean. Not just as my-”

“We should keep riding,” Jinyoung cut him off, getting up and brushing down his clothes. “We need to reach the library by sunfall.”

* * *

**...we’d be surrounded by wildfire.**

The King walked out to the gardens, standing on the steps and looking out over them. Seeing the sharp cuts of the hedges, the vibrance of the overflowing flowerbeds, the lushness of the grass. Everything expertly manicured and bursting with life. And Mark struggled to see what his younger self ever disliked about the contained order of it all. Because now, looking at it all laid out before him, it felt safe and familiar in a way that few things did anymore.

His ears caught the giggling, chattering voices coming from the lawn. His eyes followed to the tall fountain at the middle whose cascading streams poured from the vases of three small cherubs. Their round cheeks and small smiles and fluttering wings mimicking mischievous playfulness. And at the edge of the fountain, a man sat. His trousers rolled up his calves and his feet dipped into the fountain’s water. At his side, a wide-brimmed straw hat. And before him, two children played in the maze of hedges. Curly hair bouncing as they raced about.

Mark’s feet quickened down the stairs, twirling that golden flower from his bouquet in his fingers as he came up behind the man.

“Needing a break, are we, Jaebeom?”

The man turned too quickly, nearly losing his balance.

Mark reached out a hand under his arm to steady him.

“Your Majesty,” Jaebeom dashed to his feet, splashing water when he tried to bow. “My apologies, I-”

“Sit down, Jaebeom,” Mark commanded as he himself took a seat, pulling at the laces of his boots. He took off his shoes, stockings, dipping his feet into the water with a sigh of relief. “It’s so warm today,” he noted. “It seems like this spring may be the most merciless one in my years.”

“Indeed,” Jaebeom said, taking his seat again, posture straighter than before. “The sun has seemingly no more good grace left for us.” He looked the King over. “May I ask what brings Your Majesty down to the gardens?”

Mark held up the flower from his bouquet. “What is this one today?”

Jaebeom smiled, shy and modest. “Goldenrods,” he said, softly plucking the flower from Mark’s fingers. “Stubborn little things. But they can grow even in the bleakest of conditions. And watch this,” he said, before crushing the flower between his fingers. He opened his hand again, holding it out. “Smell.”

Mark leaned closer, his lip accidentally brushing up against Jaebeom’s fingers when he brought his nose to it. He took in a deep breath before smiling. “Mmm,” he hummed. “Licorice.”

Jaebeom’s eyes were fixated on Mark’s face, his mouth. He blinked, withdrawing his hand. “I knew you’d appreciate that,” his voice seemed slightly weaker as he brushed the debris onto the ground.

“Why this one today?”

Jaebeom shrugged, looking over at him through one squinted eye. “May picked it, so you’d have to ask her.”

Mark looked up, seeing two pairs of eyes staring at him over the hedges. He smiled, waving before both sets of eyes disappeared. Only the sound of giggles emanating from the foliage. “I think they want me to play a round of hide and seek again.”

Jaebeom huffed, smiling. “If you keep indulging them, I fear Anne and I will never hear the end of it,” he said. “They never stop talking about you. Truly just as smitten with their lovely King as everyone else is.”

Mark leaned closer. “It sounds like the line between their flattery and yours is narrower than you intended.”

Jaebeom’s freckled cheeks tinted pink, eyes casting down to his feet.

Mark watched him. “How is Anne?”

“She’s feeling much better,” Jaebeom nodded. “She must be less than a month away from giving April and May a little brother or sister.”

“They must be eager to meet them.”

“They are,” he grinned. “At night, before I put them to bed, they lay their ears against her, as if the baby’s heartbeat serves as some lullaby.”

Mark smiled. “You’re so lucky to have them.”

Jaebeom brushed his hair behind his ear with a nod, “I am.”

“I can’t imagine what that would be like,” Mark shook his head. “To look at them and see this marriage of you and Anne. Slivers of each of you. Your gentleness surely. But her looks, if I must say.”

Jaebeom stared at him, smile falling and voice quiet, close like he was sharing a secret. “Sometimes, I look at them and I don’t see her curls or her pointed smile, but yours.”

Mark stared back, the sounds of the garden falling away as Jaebeom offered his often fleeting stare for a longer moment.

“Perhaps that’s what drew me to her in the first place,” he said. “The way in which she reminds me of you.”

“Jaebeom,” Mark breathed.

“No, it’s okay,” the gardener shook his head, his stare proving to be fleeting just the same when he looked away again. Lips thinning into a polite smile. “We both made choices. I was happy to be one of yours. For a time.”

Mark looked at him, heart aching when he saw all of that nostalgia washing over him. Knowing the feeling. He let a hand rest against the man’s knee, feeling the soft, earth-worn linen from where his knees faithfully met the soil. His fingertips brushed it, feeling the sun-soaked warmth of his skin below. “You deserve love,” he said. “And not just for a season. But something coniferous, enduring.”

“As do you,” Jaebeom agreed. He looked up, watching the girls chase each other across the lawn. “When I look at them, they are my love. But what about you?” he asked with a turn of his head. “Where is your love?”

Mark drew his hand away, feeling smaller under his stare. He swallowed. “It’s in my country. In my people.”

Jaebeom shook his head, “That’s not the same.”

“And yet,” he murmured. “It will have to do.” He stilled, hearing the words in his ears not with his own voice but someone else's.

“Mark,” Jaebeom reached for his hand. “Let me take you past the palace walls,” he pleaded. “Just once more.”

The King stared at him. He shook his head. “Jaebeom,” he whispered, throat going weak. “I can’t.”

The gardener’s eyes softened, losing their focus. “It’s true, isn’t it? What they say?” He blinked. “You haven’t left the palace since he died. You’re too scared.”

Mark withdrew more than just his hand as he felt the flustered itch of his skin. He shook his head. “Bad things happened when I left the palace walls.”

“It’s been five years, Mark,” Jaebeom whispered. “Don’t you think it’s time?”

“To leave?”

“To move on,” he said, more firm than anything about him. “To stop punishing yourself for what happened.” He looked at him. A hand coming up to cradle his face.

Mark went still under it, feeling the contrast of the man's roughened, calloused edges alongside the trembling gentleness he handled him with. Remembering mid-mornings, roses with no thorns, petals pressed into pages, slack shoulders when they would kiss.

“Do you realize?” Jaebeom said, smiling softly. “How even your weeds are wildflowers?”

“Jaebeom,” Mark winced.

The gardener's hand fell away. “I’m sorry,” he said, breath wide in his chest. “I’ll stop.”

Mark felt a stab of guilt when he looked to Jaebeom’s kind face, seeing the softened creases near his eyes, the worn tan of his skin. Each freckle only serving as a reminder of the passage of time. He sighed. “It’s like you said,” he offered. “We both made choices. And we must carry their weight with as much grace as we can manage.”

Jaebeom looked as at peace as either of them could be, before his eyes went to the lawn, “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Mark said, going quiet. Straining his ears.

Jaebeom whispered, “Silence.”

Mark sighed, “Jackson must be teaching them how to fence again.”

“How many times do I have to tell him?” Jaebeom groaned, rising to his feet. “No sabers until they are ten.”

Mark reached for his stockings. “I’ll get them,” he said. “I need to be seeing my Head of the Treasury anyway.”

* * *

**Because if we were a home...**

“Hello?” Jinyoung called, leaning into the doorway of the cottage they’d been led to by his tutor’s careful instructions.

An older woman hurried down a staircase. “Oh, please come in,” she smiled, waving them inside. “How do you do?”

“Well,” Jinyoung smiled. “And yourself?”

“Just wonderful,” she giggled, leaning onto the outside of the library counter. “What brings you boys in today?”

Jinyoung looked over at Mark. “We rode from the palace,” he said. “We are attendants to the King.”

“Oh,” the woman flustered, brushing her hands down the apron of her dress and looking around. “I must apologize. If I knew someone from the palace was coming today, I would have better prepared.”

“No need, ma’am,” Jinyoung shook his head. He reached into his bag. “I do have a list though. Of books that the royal library intends to borrow?”

“Oh, yes. I received their letter,” she nodded, hurrying behind to the counter. “Bring it here,” she beckoned them closer, pulling glasses from her apron pocket and adjusting them on the end of her nose.

Jinyoung handed her the list and she began to diligently search her ledger, licking her fingers as she flicked through the pages, scanning for the titles. Alongside, she made a list of their locations on the library shelves.

“You boys must work closely with the King,” she said, pushing the glasses up her nose bridge.

Mark held his giggle right past his teeth. “Fairly close,” he nodded. “Though aren’t we all but humble servants under the monarchy?”

The woman smiled, “Of course.” She finished the list, passing it back to them. “Feel free to look for these and ask me if you need any help.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Jinyoung bowed his head.

“Though, it is going to be getting dark soon,” her eyebrows raised in concern. “And you boys have both come so far already. Is there any way I can convince you to stay the evening?”

Mark looked over to Jinyoung. “Oh, we couldn’t,” he smiled. “You’ve been too kind already.”

“I insist,” she urged. “I have a guest room above the library that stays warm year round.”

Jinyoung stepped forward. “That sounds lovely,” he nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Mark helped Jinyoung locate the stack of books his tutors had requested. And by the time they had found them all, the sun had long descended. Having them hold candlesticks to closely read the faded spines. They took the books up to the guest room above the library, settling beneath the soft covers of the bed. Humbler than any place Mark had ever slept in, but unquestionably more meaningful as well. He laid on his back, staring up at the thick beams of wood overhead. Weathered and aged, but still so strong in the way they supported the angled roof.

“What are you thinking about?” Jinyoung murmured, smoothing a hand up his chest.

Mark looked over at him, seeing the warmth of his skin in the candlelight. The contrast of every exaggerated shadow that danced as the light did. “I was wondering. If I should build a place like this for us,” Mark whispered. “A cottage.”

Jinyoung’s mouth pulled up at the corners. “Why would you do that?”

Mark turned towards him, reaching out to hold his hand. “So we can be together. So even if we can’t be together anywhere else, we can be together there,” he said, like he’d never been more sure of anything. “It can protect us. From prying eyes and public judgments. There, we can be free. We can be us.”

Jinyoung’s eyes sparkled, shining with a heavy gloss. “Mark,” he breathed. “I can’t ask that of you.”

“It’s but a small cottage,” the Prince laughed. “It’s hardly the crown jewels.”

“No, it’s just-” Jinyoung paused, licking his lips. “I can’t ask you to be with me. Not when you will have someone else.”

Mark’s smile dulled. “You don’t want me?”

“Of course, I do,” Jinyoung was quick to say. “But,” he toyed with Mark’s fingers, nervously. “I’ve come to terms with the fact that I won’t be the one to have you.”

Mark felt the sink of his heart in his chest. “And you’re okay with that?”

Jinyoung tried to smile, but it was forced, sad. “I have to be.”

“I’m not okay with that,” Mark shook his head. “I’m going to make sure that we can stay together. Somehow.”

“It’s impossible,” Jinyoung said, voice weak. “It can’t be.”

“I will be king,” the Prince shrugged with a smile. “Who’s to say I can’t make it so?”

“Mark-”

“Jinyoung,” he breathed. “You told me that my mother’s love was what gave my father the strength to be the great leader he is,” he pulled his hand up to the ward’s face, thumbing against his high cheekbone. “You are the love that makes _me_ better,” he smiled, voice airy.

“Don’t,” Jinyoung’s brows came together. Pleading. “Don’t use that word.”

Mark drew him closer across the sheets, looking deeply into his eyes. “Why?”

Jinyoung swallowed, eyes glassy again. Not able to voice what they both knew.

Mark’s mouth stretched into a tender smile. “Jinyoung. I lov-”

But before he could get the word out, Jinyoung’s mouth was on his, silencing any hope of a confession. Kissing him hard and rolling on top of him, pinning his wrists down.

“Hey,” Mark laughed, trying to pull away. “You can’t just-”

“Another time, Mark,” Jinyoung kissed him again. And again. “Not now.”

Mark gave in, pulling his hands away to put them at Jinyoung’s hips. To draw him as close as he could get him. Hands working under shirts and into trousers and names and moans silenced by hands and pillows. And afterwards, with limbs still stiff and dewy, Jinyoung added another log to the stove before pulling his shirt back on and coming back to bed.

Mark drew him closer, nuzzling into his chest. “What about tomorrow?” he muttered, voice smothered by the fabric of the ward’s shirt.

“Pardon?” Jinyoung laughed, pulling his face up.

Mark bit his lip. “When we get to the coast,” his eyes shined with hope. “Can I say it then?”

Jinyoung blinked, smile going stale. “Go to sleep, Your Highness,” he said, combing Mark’s curls behind his ear.

Mark scoffed. “Oh, so _now_ I’m Your Highness.”

Jinyoung didn’t laugh, just smiled softly. “Sweet dreams, Mark,” he whispered, kissing between his brows.

When Mark slept that night, he dreamt of waves with amorphous crashing again. But when the sun had risen, there was no Bambam opening up the curtains with a gentle smile. No, instead there was yelling.

“Boys!” it screamed. “Boys! Wake up!”

Mark’s head rose, opening his eyes to see Jinyoung’s own panicked expression staring back. Both of them hastening out of bed, haphazardly pulling on clothing as they began to stumble down the stairs with missing belts and stockings.

“What is it?” Jinyoung panted as they raced down, meeting the librarian at the bottom of the staircase.

“The King,” she said, breathless and hysterical. “The King.”

Mark stepped forward, fingers trying to button up his shirt. “What about him?”

She gulped, hand against her chest, trying to catch her breath, calm her heart. “He has fallen ill,” she said, brows drawing together.

“What?” Mark’s eyes went wide, his pulse heightening.

“I just came from town,” she gasped. “Two riders. From the palace. They came to spread the word. That the King is gravely ill. And the Prince,” her eyes watered. “The Prince has gone missing.”

Mark and Jinyoung’s eyes met, both of them communicating their shared alarm.

She reached forward, clutching Mark’s arm. “You must go back,” she urged. “Help find the Prince. The people need him.”

Jinyoung and Mark didn’t speak, instead they wordlessly rushed to pack up and be on their way. Keats raced through the countryside, galloping along the way they’d come yesterday with three times the speed. And Mark tightly clutched Jinyoung’s middle, burying his face in his shirt and feeling all the heated panic seeping through the ward. Trying to find some comfort in it, but only finding the unsteady turning of his stomach, the burning of his lungs as he held his breath.

When they came through the palace gates, the guards immediately saw who it was. Shouting down the line towards the palace faster than Keats could run. And by the time they raced into the courtyard, Keats’ hoofs echoing across the cobblestones like a warning cry, the grouping of guards and palace staff at the door was at least forty people thick.

Jinyoung pulled the reins as Keats slowed to a stop. And as soon as he did, Mark was sliding off of his back onto the ground and racing toward the line of people.

“King Mark!” one of the guards shouted from the crowd. “Long may he reign!”

And before his eyes, the crowd started to fall to their knees in front of him. Like a wave cascading down the lines of people.

Mark gasped, mouth hanging open and pulse halting in his veins as he watched them bow before him. The breath he’d been holding in his chest going frantic as he rushed to look over at Jinyoung with wide eyes. Holding the question that he already knew the answer to.

Jinyoung was looking back, everything in his demeanor crushed. His shoulders fallen and his expression pained and something in his eyes unfathomably deep with anguish. And slowly, he too knelt before Mark, eyes fixed on him. Confirming exactly what Mark knew was true.

The Prince’s breathes were shallow, futile as he pulled his eyes away, stepping up to his father’s head of house. “Take me to him,” he said, firmly.

The man rose to his feet, bowing his head and turning toward the palace doors.

Mark started to follow him inside before someone grabbed his hand. He looked back, seeing Jinyoung’s wide, round eyes looking up at him.

“I’ll come with you,” he breathed.

Mark’s breaths turned hot, angry. Tears welling up in his eyes with no sadness, only scorn. “No, Jinyoung,” he hissed, ripping his hand away. “You’ve done enough.”

* * *

**...we’d be abandoned, haunted.**

When Mark came over the hill, the first thing that caught his eye was the cottage on the horizon. A foundation laid, the makings of a partial roof hanging overhead. Rooms mapped out but left open, the warm breeze able to pass freely through. And Mark felt a pang of something deep in his chest at the unfinished home, the whispered promise that had been behind it.

As he came closer, he could see Jackson on the porch. His shirt buttons left too open at the neck as he held a feather quill in his extended hand. Squatted into a deep stance with a leather bound folder under his arm. An exaggerated smile across his handsome face.

April stood across from him. Soft curls and dark eyes as she held her own quill, diving forward to try and stick Jackson. When he dodged away from her advance, she only pushed further, bending the quill into his chest. May cheered from behind her.

“Ah,” Jackson mocked, clutching at his chest dramatically. “I’ve been struck.”

“Jackson,” Mark called, skipping up the porch steps. “That will be enough fighting for one day.”

Jackson’s arm fell with a light scoff between his grin. “They’re just quills, Your Majesty,” the man laughed, tickling the tip of the feather at the King’s nape. “No more dangerous than Jaebeom’s petunias, I can assure you.”

Mark pushed it away, fighting his smile as he turned to the girls. “Alright, you two,” he nudged their shoulders. “Back to your father in the gardens. I need to talk to this gentleman.”

The girls curtsied, smiling wide. “Au revoir, Your Majesty,” they giggled before joining hands and running off back down the hill.

Mark raised his brow at Jackson, “You’re teaching them French?”

“Just enough to spar,” Jackson smiled, tucking the quill behind his ear. “In hopes they can best their own King by the age of ten.”

“Keep hoping.”

Jackson’s eyes raised to the cottage, stepping over the threshold. Pacing around a room with a workbench in the middle that had been left to weather, looking up at the incomplete roof. “I’ve never noticed this place on the grounds,” he said, kicking at a gathering of dried leaves that collected on the floorboards. “Who built this place? Or at least started to?”

Mark went quiet. Watching him walk from the outside. Disliking the question in Jackson’s eyes when he looked up, like the Lord was incapable of dismissing his own curiosities.

But then, there was a change in his expression. A realization. Brightening his friendly features. He blinked. “Why was he doing it?” he asked, voice softer.

Mark swallowed hard, eyes going to the floor. “For me,” he said, voice deep and restrained. “After what happened.”

Jackson stayed still, pensive, for a moment too long. So long that the King had to look up at him and see that same look of aching sympathy that Bambam had. Perhaps with a bit of something more bitter in it. “It proved to be a futile endeavor, I see.”

Mark pretended not to hear. “What brings you here, Jackson? I thought you were in the city.”

“I was,” Jackson nodded, procuring the leather bound folder from under his arm. “But the eastern border has finally settled our mining deal. The quarry is ours at the price we offered. I just need your final signature,” he spread the paperwork across the workbench, procuring a brass inkwell from deep in his inner pocket and plucking the quill from his ear.

Mark knitted his brows, grabbing the quill and leaning over the papers. He scanned them passively. “You could have had a courtier send this to Jinyoung,” he murmured, dipping the tip in the ink before signing his title across the bottom. He looked up, leaning both hands against the wood. “But instead, I get the feeling that this is about more than a quarry.”

Jackson shrugged off his coat, folding it against the table. “I may have come with ulterior motives,” he admitted.

Mark looked up at him, his eyes offering the question.

Jackson looked as nervous as Mark had ever seen him. Eyes round and mouth twisted together. “I came to ask for your blessing.”

Mark closed the paperwork, pushing it back over. “For?”

Jackson took a deep breath. “I’m asking Alana to marry me.”

Mark felt the gasp under his breath as he looked at him, seeing that he was serious. And he was suddenly unable to think about anything but that court ceremony at the palace months ago. The crazed music being played by the quartet. The oversalted food. The way the wine had helped contrast it.

Jackson at his side had leaned over, speaking under his breath in a way that was completely uncharacteristic of him. “Who…” his voice trailed off. “Who is the Lady sitting next to Lord Monduke?”

Mark looked up, glancing across the Great Hall. Seeing the Lord dressed in his court coat, swirling gold embroidery making him glimmer in the soft light. And at his side, a dark-haired young woman sat looking rather bored as her eyes wandered the room, fingers circling the rim of her wine glass. Mark shrugged, “I believe she is the Lord’s eldest daughter. Why?”

Jackson was trying to keep his eyes on Mark, but they kept flicking over, almost as if he couldn’t control them. “Do you know her name?”

“No,” Mark shook his head. “We were introduced once by my father. Or am I mistaking her for her sister?” he wondered out loud.

Jackson didn’t speak the rest of the dinner, which was, again, highly uncharacteristic. In fact, he didn’t speak again until the dancing had already started and he and Mark were leaning up against one wall watching the room shift in coordinated motions. Jackson’s gaze wouldn’t lie dormant on Mark’s face for longer than a few passing moments.

“Where do you keep looking?” the King hissed, narrowing his eyes. Feeling himself growing frustrated.

“Nowhere, Your Majesty,” Jackson said, looking back at him innocently. “Just enjoying the party."

Mark scoffed. “Come along then,” he murmured, yanking Jackson’s sleeve.

“What?” the young Lord tried to pull away, back peddling on his feet. “What are you-”

Mark’s eyes widened. “You want to keep staring at her all night or do you want me to introduce you?”

Jackson didn’t speak, only lessened the weight pulled against Mark until he could drag him across the room.

For the rest of the night, the King watched Jackson dance with her, trying to make conversation with other guests, but he could now feel himself watching the wide smiles of their face too closely. The moving of their lips as they exchanged banter. The steadied way they spun through the crowd. The contrast of Jackson’s burgundy waistcoat against her emerald green dress. And he couldn’t explain the way it made his stomach turn.

“She’s fantastic,” Jackson had said when the King had made some excuse about retiring to his chambers early and the man had followed him through the palace halls. The Lord’s footsteps seemed light, nearly floating. Everything about him thrumming with an energy that the King hadn’t ever seen in him before. “Isn’t she fantastic?” he looked to him, eyes bright.

“You’re fantastic,” Mark urged with a soft smile. But when Jackson turned away, it quickly fell from his face.

“I’m going to her manor tomorrow,” the Lord said. “Seeing her home. Her family.”

“That’s wonderful, Jackson,” Mark said, tone too even. He felt fingers grip into his shoulder, pulling him back and turning him.

Jackson was there, smile gone. Eyes full of concern. “What’s wrong?”

Mark found it hard to look at him, to be so close and yet never farther. And though it had been ages since they’d been anything more than king and treasurer, than strictly platonic friends, Mark suddenly had the short-sighted urge to invite Jackson to spend the night with him.

But he didn’t want to face the rejection. Or worse, knowing he’d be losing him in the morning to someone else.

“I’m just tired,” he said, cheeks flushing with shame. “I’ve had a long day.”

Jackson looked at him seriously, trying to read his expression. But if he ever found anything, he didn’t give it away. All he did was pat the King’s shoulder. “You should go to bed, Your Majesty,” he said softly. “And I should go home.”

Mark still felt that needlessly possessive yearning months later with Jackson standing across from him. But looking at him now, he could see the soft pleading in his eyes. How much he wanted this engagement. How nervous he was to ask for it. Mark cleared his throat, voice coming out weaker than it had meant to, “You love her, don’t you?”

“I do,” Jackson nodded. “Very much.”

Mark fiddled with the quill between his fingers. “What’s that feel like?” he asked, as if it was a secret just between them.

Jackon’s face softened, a small upturn of his lips. “I’m not gifted with words,” he shook his head.

Mark fought the urge to reach across the table for his hand. “Try.”

Jackson took a deep breath, looking up at the blue sky peaking through the abandoned construction. “It’s like…” he thought with a smile. “It’s like the world is so much more rich, beautiful, because she is in it.” He shrugged, “A stroll through the park. A quiet night in. A meeting of eyes across a busy room. Everything that once seemed so simple, so dull, is suddenly full of importance.”

Mark hadn’t meant to think of anyone in that moment. But he wasn’t surprised when he did.

“I’m happy for you, Jackson,” the King said, mustering sincerity. “Truly. You have nothing but the most enthusiastic of blessings from the crown.”

Jackson smiled, bowing his head. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Mark watched the Lord’s eyes sparkle in such a way that the King knew he wasn’t the thought Jackson was having anymore. And it shouldn’t have made him struggle to breathe. It shouldn’t have felt like a heavy weight sitting upon his chest. “This heat,” he complained, undoing the collar of his shirt in an effort to calm down. “Can you even believe it’s spring?” he tried to laugh as he fanned himself.

Jackson stepped around the workbench, coming closer and drawing his fingers up to Mark’s shoulder. Pushing the fabric away to trace the edge of his scar. “God,” he smiled. “It’s been awhile since I saw this.”

Mark felt the graze of his touch. His hands absent of those decorated calluses that Jaebeom’s had held, soft with his innate privilege. But nevertheless, it made Mark shiver. “Well,” he said, pushing Jackson’s hand away and pulling the linen back over it. “It’s still there. As promised by the one who gave it to me.”

Jackson stared at him for a long moment, eyes passively running down his body once before coming back up to the King’s face. “Isn’t it crazy? How just seeing it, feeling it can bring back a flood of memories?”

Mark rolled his eyes, “Don’t get nostalgic on me.”

“How can I not?” Jackson laughed. “God. We were so young, so foolish. Bored of everything. Of everyone.”

“And now, look at you,” Mark sighed. “Secretary of the Treasury. Engaged to be married. What would your younger self think?”

“Speak for yourself,” Jackson smirked. “The career you never cared about. Yet cherished by citizens and allies alike. Toted as one of the best kings this country has ever seen.”

Mark shook his head, “I’m very lucky to have a great council. They compensate for my inadequacy.”

“The diplomatic answer,” Jackson scoffed. “Quit the self-loathing act, Mark. You were always your own worst enemy.”

The King went quiet, wondering if he was right.

Jackson kept looking at him, voice going softer. “Remember when you came to me after your father died?” he asked. “And you begged me to be your advisor?”

Mark stiffened, not feeling that heat anymore. “I don’t want to talk about that,” he said, looking away.

“Your Majesty!” a voice called from the tall grass.

Mark looked over his shoulder, seeing a palace page coming up the hill. “The General is here,” the boy yelled. “He’s waiting for you in the Great Hall.”

“Thank you,” Mark called back, turning to Jackson. “Duty calls,” he sighed, forcing a smile.

“Do you want a ride?” the Lord asked. He beckoned the other direction, “I have a horse hitched right at that tree-”

“Nonsense,” the King said, straightening his clothes. “The walk shall do my mind some good.”

Jackson looked at him, that same flicker of concern that Mark kept seeing in too many faces. “You still hate going there?” he asked. “The Great Hall?”

Mark’s mouth tightened. “Every time.”

* * *

**Because if we were blackbirds...**

Mark didn’t cry during the Prince’s speech at the funeral. He couldn’t have. The words had been prepared for him years in advance, awaiting the day. And in them, there were acknowledgements of the King’s legacy, his rule, his accomplishments. Everything that made him the greatest ruler his people had ever known.

But there had been nothing about Mark’s father. Nothing about the man out of uniform. About who he’d been when he hadn’t needed to be King. When being a husband or a father had been enough. And when Mark looked across the crowd, he saw those hundreds of glossed eyes shining back in the stained glass light of the Great Hall. And it only made him angry. To think that these people hadn’t even really known his father. Not the way he had actually been.

Mark met Jinyoung’s eyes in the front row. And they were round and sad, brows tilted up in the middle. But they were dry. And Mark had to look away to stay focused on the words of his speech.

After the ceremony, the Hall cleared out. And all that was left was Mark standing at the throne’s precipice, looking up at the mass of flowers the attendees had left at its feet. He squatted down, fingers grazing over the delicate petals. Feeling how lifeless they were. Uprooted. Dead.

He felt a hand grasp at his shoulder. Warm and firm and familiar.

“Mark,” Jinyoung whispered, so soft that his voice was nearly lost in the vastness of the space. “I’m so sorry.”

The Prince swallowed down a wet throat, face twitching on one side. “If I had been here,” his lungs burned, constricted around nothing. “If I hadn’t left. I could have-”

“What could you have done?”

Mark stood up, looking back and seeing the drawing together of the ward’s brows. The genuine concern in his expression.

But it didn’t soften Mark’s disposition. If anything, he felt the tears in his eyes growing heavier under his stare. “I could have been here for him,” he said, voice weak. “Or who knows?” he shrugged. “Maybe it wouldn’t have even happened if I had been here.”

“Mark,” Jinyoung shook his head. “You can’t think like that.”

The Prince tried to exhale but it was shaky, unsteady. “He was my father, Jinyoung,” he choked out, wiping at the tears in his eyes. “He wasn’t just a king. He was my father.”

“I know,” he nodded, taking a step closer and pulling Mark in. Folding the Prince’s head into his shoulder. “I know.”

Mark unwillingly collapsed into him, screwing his eyes shut as he tried to hold it all back. “He had to die alone,” he bit out, dragging his tightened first down Jinyoung’s black coat. “He had to die wondering where I was. Why I couldn’t come to his bedside.”

“You can cry,” Jinyoung soothed in his ear. “I’m here.”

“I will not,” Mark shook his head. “I cannot.”

“Hey,” Jinyoung raised his chin to meet his eyes. “To cry is to let a storm pass and keep moving.”

Mark felt the tepid numbness heat to a simmer. Fury welling up in place of the tears. He narrowed his eyes. “You can’t fix this with a few nice words that fade away in the wind as they are said,” he snapped. “Poetry is not reality, Jinyoung.”

The man’s expression fell. Leaving only hurt in its wake. He blinked. “I know. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just… I want to be here for you.”

“Stop,” Mark scoffed, pulling away from him.

Jinyoung’s face stayed hurt. “You are blaming me for this,” he said, like it was a fact.

Mark looked at him, seeing the beauty of his features and the tenderness of his eyes. Everything he’d cherished not so long ago now filling him with seething rage.

The tears welled up in Jinyoung’s eyes “What did I do?” he asked, searching the Prince’s face for an answer.

Mark’s breath turned hot, burning and angry. Voice so fierce and thundering that it echoed off the stained glass. “You’ve complicated me! You’ve complicated _all of this_!” he yelled. “My life was supposed to be _simple._ Marry and settle down with a reputable woman. Be the leader this country needed me to be. The leader the history books needed me to be.” He fisted his hands, “But you had to come here from your seaside shithole and ruin it. _Ruin me.”_

Jinyoung tried to blink the tears away. “I’ve always put the crown first,” he urged. “You can’t tell me I haven’t.”

“If the crown had come first, you would have never walked those halls with me at midnight. You would have never kissed me. Never lie with me.”

The man’s eyes stared back, wide and wet. Offended and hurt and desperate. “That is my crime, then?” he asked, raising his voice. “Coming here? Giving you everything I have? Falling in love with you?”

Mark nearly laughed, callous and cruel. “No,” he shook his head, a shaky finger pointing up into the man’s face. “You don’t get to throw that word around when it suits your argument. Not when I’m the one who has been trying to say it for years.”

Jinyoung tried to breathe, voice shaking. Losing his composure. “Tell me what to do,” he begged. “Tell me how to help.”

Mark stood back, everything in him wound tight. He crossed his arms over his chest. “We always knew there would be an end,” he said. “And here it is.”

“That’s not-” Jinyoung tried to breathe. “The end was meant to be marriage. Meant to be fidelity,” he choked. “But who will you be faithful to now? Your pride?”

“My country,” Mark said, voice steeped in finality. “My duty. Because I haven’t forgotten why we are here. I haven’t forgotten who we become in the wake of my father’s legacy.”

Jinyoung’s shoulders caved in. “Mark,” he breathed.

“I don’t want to hear any more,” the Prince crossed his arms, turning back to look up at the flowers, the throne. “In fact, I want nothing more than to be alone.”

Mark stayed resolute, every muscle coiled tight in his shoulders, his jaw. The silent moment stretching out so long that he thought that it might never end. That they may just both be standing there, neither together nor apart, for all eternity.

But that wasn’t the case and breaking the silence was the slow click of Jinyoung’s shoes against the stone floor. His reluctant steps down the aisle, moving farther and farther away.

Mark waited until the thick wooden doors of the Hall had fully shut, the quake of the stained glass windows making him similarly shiver. And when the room went silent again, he let his eyes fall from the throne and it was only then that he finally allowed the tears to fall.

* * *

**...we’d be watching the sky from a cage.**

Mark was listening. Really, he was. But he could multitask. He could listen to the General and pay close attention to his briefings while also letting his eyes flick up to across the Hall. To where Yugyeom was leaning up against a tapestry, dressed in his knight regalia with the most bashful little smile across his face. Reddening cheeks and biting lips every time the King looked up at him.

“And as you can see,” the General said, leaning over the map he’d rolled out across the table. “The Navy will take this path towards the southern territories in hopes that it will not only help them to catch the eastern winds but also allow them to avoid the more crowded trading routes.”

Mark looked back to the map, clearing his throat and his thoughts. “Will they still have enough room for the refugees from the flooded areas?”

“They should,” the General nodded. “On the lower decks.”

“Hmm,” Mark hummed, pulling back to think. “Have the sailors move into the lower decks. Save the upper decks for the refugees. They’ve been through enough. We want them to be comfortable.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the General agreed. “There is an opportunity to greet them at the coast when they arrive.”

Mark felt his body go tight. He swallowed. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, shaking his head and darting his eyes away. “There will be a state dinner for them when they arrive. Here at the palace. That will be plenty.”

And he narrowly caught the General’s concerned eyes, as if he knew exactly what Mark was remembering. He sighed. “Understood.”

Mark felt the red hot prick of shame coat his neck, smoothing it down with a hand. “Is that all you have for me then?”

“Indeed,” the man rolled up the map in his hands. “Oh, one more thing,” he noted, turning over his shoulder and calling out to his son. “Yugyeom, bring them here.”

Yugyeom leaned off the wall, reaching for the blanketed item next to him and pulling it up into his arms. He brought it over, placing it on the table.

Mark cocked his brow at the knight. “What is this?”

Yugyeom reached for the edge of the blanket, pulling it away to reveal a metal cage. Inside, two dark birds sat side by side on a ledge. Blinking their beady eyes open and looking up at the King with a pleasant trill of their song.

“They are blackbirds, Your Majesty,” the knight smiled. “From the southern allies. A gift for helping rehome the flood’s refugees. A delicacy in their country.”

Mark looked at the birds, suddenly imagining them flayed open. Featherless, flightless, lifeless. He winced, stomach churning. Hating the imagery. He looked up to the General, trying to wave the rush of nausea away. “Will you stay for tea, General?” he offered.

The man sighed, shaking his head. “I cannot,” he said. “Far too much to do in preparation of the refugees I’m afraid.”

Mark smiled softly. “Maybe you can offer your son as recompense,” he said. “Tea tastes better shared with others, don’t you agree?”

The General looked over to Yugyeom, messages shared in their nearly identical kind eyes and sweet smiles. “Of course, Your Majesty,” the man bowed. “Have a wonderful afternoon.”

The General walked out of the room, leaving the large empty Hall just for Mark and Yugyeom. And the King briefly remembered Yugyeom’s red uniform drawing Mark’s eyes and interest those many years ago. “Come, sit,” he smirked, beckoning over to the sette near the open window.

Mark called for tea and a few minutes later the staff were wheeling in the cart and setting up the small spread in front of them. The King reached out, pouring Yugyeom’s cup for him. “So,” he started, fighting his smile. “You and Bambam, then.”

The knight blushed as red as his uniform. Wide chest growing wider with a nervous breath. Mouth falling open and stumbling for his words. “Your Majesty-”

Mark smiled. “You are so sweet,” he whispered. “I could put you in my mouth and you would dissolve.”

And though Yugyeom seemed to surrender his words, his cheeks didn’t surrender their deep scarlet. His eyes meeting Mark’s and looking kind and gracious in that way that the knight always was.

Mark licked his lips. “Tell me,” he said, leaning closer to talk quietly, despite them being alone. He shook his head. “You are not scared? Of your father? Of what people think?”

Yugyeom thought about it for a moment, face going pensive and calm. “No,” he finally said, like it bore no further explanation.

Mark stared at him with vivid fascination. “Why not?”

Yugyeom thought a moment longer, staring down into his steeping cup. “The way I see it,” he said. “My duty is to be a knight, to protect my country and the ones I love. And if that be the case, then I must find those worthy of fighting for.” He lifted his cup to his mouth, taking a sip.

“So your King is not enough then?” Mark’s smile spread, mocking, as his hand went to Yugyeom’s knee.

Yugyeom sputtered over the brim of his cup, choking and gasping. “Of course you are,” he urged. Thinking again. “But even you must know there is a difference between the love of one’s country, one’s sovereign. And the type of love one has for someone close. You must understand that they cannot be substituted.”

Mark’s smirk fell. “I understand,” he said softly, knowing that deep down he was contradicting the words he’d been telling himself and others for as long as he’d been on the throne.

Yugyeom smiled down into his cup. “Bambam and I both have duties to the crown. But if we are honorable to the love we have for this nation,” he said, looking up at his King, “Then why can’t we also be honorable to the love we have for each other?”

The King stared at him, seeing exactly what he’d loved about him. How he seemed so sweet and young and shy, yet was dripping with wisdom past his years, maturity and grace that couldn’t be captured with words alone. The way everything was so simple when it was coming out of his mouth. He smiled. “If I could knight you again, I would,” he said. “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known.”

Yugyeom bit his lip, going bashful again as he shrugged his shoulders.

Mark beckoned his head towards the doors. “Go,” he commanded. “Find your love. I’m sure he’s eagerly waiting for you.”

Yugyeom didn’t hesitate putting his cup down and rushing to get up, like it was exactly the permission he’d been waiting to get. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he breathed, smiling wide as he hurried out.

Mark watched him, feeling the strong slam of the doors again rattling the stained glass. He looked at his tea on the table that had already gone cold. No desire for it left anymore.

His eyes followed the sound of spirited chirping, looking at that cage of blackbirds once more. And his heart seemed to constrict around nothing in his chest. Empty and restless and longing for the feeling Yugyeom had just described. The courage he’d shown in describing it.

Mark sighed, standing up and going to the cage on the table. He unlocked the door, letting it swing open and watching the birds immediately flee. Both of them taking flight and swooping towards the open window, sailing on the steady spring breeze until their tune was distant and the Hall went quiet again.

* * *

**Because if we were a waltz...**

The day of Mark’s coronation started with sitting at a chair by the window of his chamber, Bambam sidestepping in a small circle around him. The valet’s hands trembling nearly imperceptibly, despite the concentration set deeply between his brows. And Mark could see from the corners of his eyes as the curls fell down to the floor with each sharp snip in his ears.

When he looked up in the mirror, his hair was short. Too short to let the strands give way to any sort of curl. He ran his hands against the shortened nape, around his ears, feeling exposed and sensitive in a way he hadn’t ever remembered feeling.

His gaze paned down to his clothing. Noting the periwinkle blue velvet of his trousers, his jacket. Harkening to a version of himself that he nearly didn’t know was there anymore. A boy who laid in flower fields and haylofts and in darkened corners of the palace. Laid alongside his beautiful friends who were all so different. But that wasn’t who he was anymore. Who he needed to be.

“Bam,” he called out, eyes shifting over to the valet’s reflection.

The boy looked up at him, attentive, wide eyes. He was so pretty.

Mark gulped, eyes casting down to the floor before he beckoned towards the rack of clothes that had been wheeled in for him. “Get me the black,” he murmured, taking off his jacket.

Bambam’s eyes went even wider, dumbfounded. “Your Majesty-”

“Don’t,” Mark snapped when he heard the honorific leave Bambam’s mouth. Because no one had yet called him that. And it made his chest ache, suddenly remembering who wasn’t there. “I’m not Your Majesty just yet,” he bit out, reaching for the black jacket and pulling it on.

“Mark,” Bambam said, rushing to his side. “You wore that to the funeral. You can’t-”

“If this is what I want to wear,” Mark looked back at him, eyes and tone suddenly full of flame and bite. “Then, this is what I shall wear.”

Bambam stepped back, as if he hadn’t expected the sudden hostility. “Yes, sir,” he breathed.

The night of Mark’s coronation, there’s the largest ball he had ever seen. Carriages from foreign districts pulling up in a long line in the courtyard to attend. But the newly crowned King did not attend. Instead, he retreated to his chamber, watching from the balcony as the carriages pulled up and attendants stepped out wearing garish clothing and wide smiles. Mark could hear the music coming from the Great Hall, floating all the way up to his balcony. It was a waltz, so slow and sweet, and he could nearly picture the coordinated movements of the court spinning through the room. But the only spinning Mark could do was in his head as he threw back another swig from the champagne bottle.

“Your Majesty,” his staff stood at the doorway to the balcony. “The royal advisor is here.”

Mark nearly snorted, not turning his head. He sighed, “Send him in if you must.”

Moments later, Mark heard the slow steps of Jinyoung’s shoes against the stone balcony. He turned to see the boy standing behind him. The navy suit he’d worn to the coronation stark against the blackness of the room behind him. Gold buttons trailing down his chest. Stars against the night sky. And Mark’s mind spun, dizzy and hopeless as he had the sudden urge to tear apart the night sky and reveal what was behind it.

“You aren’t at the ball,” Jinyoung said, coming forward and leaning against the bannister to look out over the grounds.

Mark’s stomach sank, turning away as his tone went just as bitter as the stale taste of champagne in his mouth. “The seal on his tomb is barely dry and yet they are dancing and toasting to my long reign.”

“This is the way it goes, Mark,” Jinyoung urged. “This is the passage of time. The people need to keep looking ahead.”

Mark didn’t meet his eyes, just pulling the bottle up to his lips. “The future doesn’t inherently promise anything better than the past,” he said, taking a long swig.

Jinyoung’s eyes stayed fixed on him, the reflection of him curved in the green glass of the bottle. Mark emptied it, holding the neck between his loosened fingers as he looked over, noting the despair in Jinyoung’s eyes.

“What are you thinking, Mark?” he whispered, voice and eyes filled with worry. “Tell me.”

Mark couldn’t look away. Couldn’t help the tears welling up in his eyes. His face quivering, trying not to break. “I don’t know,” he choked out. “I just… I miss him. And I wish he was here. He’d know what to say. He’d know what to do.”

Jinyoung’s dark eyes deepening with empathy. “Come here,” he whispered, reaching for Mark and pulling him closer.

Mark was drunk and grieving and he felt like he hadn’t known warmth since he’d last left Jinyoung’s arms. And being in them now, he felt that safe familiar surrounding him when nothing had felt safe, nothing had felt familiar.

“You can do this,” Jinyoung whispered close to his ear.

Mark shook his head, tears catching on the navy jacket. “I can’t, Jinyoung,” he cried. “I’m not ready.”

“You are.”

“You don’t know that. You can’t know that.”

Jinyoung reached for his chin, pulling it up to meet his eyes. “And neither can you,” he said, a soft smile somewhere hidden deep in his expression. “I know you better than anyone,” he said, voice just as warm as his embrace. “And though the sun hasn’t even risen on your first day as King, I’ve never been so sure of the fact that we are ready.”

Mark felt the perk of his ears at that sound. The maybe careless, maybe careful inclusion of that word. _We._

Jinyoung let his smile show through. “You looked beautiful at the coronation,” he whispered. “But under blackened night skies, you’re somehow even more beautiful.”

Mark felt the blush tip his ears, and maybe Jinyoung did too because his fingers trailed there. Tracing the precise line of short hair just above the curve of his ear.

“I miss your long hair already,” he said. “But now, I can see the starlight in your eyes, unobstructed. And now, there’s no question about just how breathtaking you are.”

Mark felt the salt drying on his cheeks, eyes casting down to the boy’s mouth in his shameless drunkenness. “Jinyoung.”

The boy pulled the King’s face closer. “Take my breath. Straight from my lungs,” he murmured, nearly against his mouth. “Take it. It’s yours. It will always be yours.”

Mark couldn’t hold himself back anymore as his weight shifted into Jinyoung, letting their mouths meet in the middle. And it had been too long since they’d last kissed. So long that Mark was flooding with memories. Of midnights and lakesides and murmurings of poetry. All the things that made him fall in love with Jinyoung in the first place.

Jinyoung whispered, close and smiling when he took a breath, “I hope he can see you right now.” He smoothed the short hair down Mark’s neck, “He’d be so proud of you.”

Mark felt everything in him sink. Stomach going uneasy like all the bubbles of the champagne had soured. He pulled away, looking into Jinyoung’s face and not seeing the person his father had wanted for him. Not seeing the promise that he’d intended to keep. The one his father never got to see him fulfill. And it killed him to know that he’d never given him that peace before he had to pass.

Mark swallowed, pulling out of Jinyoung’s embrace. “I need you to leave,” he said, no more softness in his voice. And though the connotation was that he was speaking about the King’s chambers, it felt so much bigger than that. Like he was asking Jinyoung to vacate the parts of his heart, his head that he’d made an unwillful home in.

Jinyoung’s eyes widened with hurt, brows tinging together in the middle. “Why?” he said, a challenge in his tone. “Why do you need me to leave?”

“You know why,” Mark said, stepping away from him and leaning back onto the balcony’s edge, shoulders trembling. Looking out over the rows of smiling faces and laughter and music. All for him. “I need to focus on my duty.”

“Please, Mark,” Jinyoung pleaded, stepping closer. “It can’t be so black and white.”

“And yet, it is,” the King said, not turning his head, not raising his voice. As if the fight had been drained from him. And all that was left was lifeless numbness.

Jinyoung didn’t say another word. Instead, he walked out, leaving Mark alone on that balcony, staring up at the blackened sky as fireworks began to shoot off. The colors reflecting across the lawn, the garden, the lake, the crowd.

And by the light of the fireworks, the King went to his room. He kicked the desk to the floor and shattered the mirrors. Ripped the curtains from the windows and the tapestries from the wall. He screamed and he screamed and he sobbed until there was no sound left in him anymore.

When he awoke the next morning, Bambam was standing among the wreckage. Wide eyes surveying.

Mark scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping from the dizzy ache on his hangover. “Bambam,” he rushed to say. “I’ll-”

Bambam held up a hand. “It’s fine, Your Majesty,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of it.”

* * *

**...we’d be dissonant chords, yearning to resolve.**

Mark was sitting at his desk. Across from him, Jinyoung sat, nose buried in paperwork as he spoke, giving his typical daily brief. He was giving a lengthy update on the bordering nation’s military efforts when he seemed to reach a steadied pause. Eyes still cast down to his paperwork. “And you have someone coming to visit you this week,” he said, offhandedly. Like it was tacked on to previous statements.

Nevertheless, it got the King’s attention. He looked up from his desk. “Who?” he asked, brow crinkling. “A head of state? Portugal? Sweden?”

Jinyoung’s eyes still didn’t meet his. “A certain composer.”

Mark felt immediately lighter, like he would float up towards the intricate crown moldings if it hadn’t been for the desk. “Oh,” his eyes went out of focus and in thought, before attempting to ground himself. He cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, bringing that paper he’d been reading closer, despite being too deep in thought to read a word of it. “Prepare him a room then.”

Jinyoung scoffed, the words just under his breath, “Why bother?”

Mark’s eyes cast upward, putting down what he’d been looking at. “What was that?”

Jinyoung looked up finally, meeting Mark’s eyes. Some mix of emotions in them that could not be read by even the King himself. He pursed his lips. “We know where he’ll end up,” he said, definitively. Firmly.

Mark held his gaze. Feeling the flicker of anger wordlessly spark somewhere in the space between them. He sighed. “Is that all then?” he said, dismissively. “If so, it would be nice to have some quiet while I worked.”

“I can be quiet,” Jinyoung said, eyebrows tinging together. Immediately apologetic in the way his mouth couldn’t be.

Mark stared at him. “Then, it would be nice to have some solitude.”

Jinyoung held his gaze a moment longer. “Fine,” he breathed, rising to collect his papers. “Call on me if you need me.”

A few days later, Mark was standing in the courtyard as a carriage pulled up. Guards flanking him on either side as he rocked back and forth on his shoes. Feeling something akin to nerves tingling under his skin. A feeling that had lain dormant for far too long. One that felt nostalgic as he watched the guard open the carriage door.

“Mark!” Youngjae cheered as he nearly threw himself out of the carriage, arms wrapping around the King’s neck tightly. Giggling loudly in his ear.

Mark nearly stumbled back at the sudden weight, smile spreading wide as the guards took a precautionary step forward. Mark looked to them, holding up a hand to ask them to stand down before relocating that hand to Youngjae’s back.

“I missed you so much,” the composer whispered, holding him tightly.

Mark laughed, feeling like if he didn’t, he’d cry. “I missed you, too,” he murmured, remembering everything about him that had become like an eerily familiar dream in their time apart. “Come on,” he pulled away. “Let’s get you inside. You should rest before tonight.”

Mark had tried to pitch a feast for Youngjae’s visit, but the young composer had protested. Saying that he had far too many feasts in his career, enough to last a lifetime. But Mark still urged for them to celebrate in whatever way they could.

So that night, Mark held a dinner. Just with the closest of the court. Avoiding the opulence of the Great Hall in favor of the intimacy of a private dining room. Mark held a glass toasting to the return of his dear friend. And if there had been any whispers among the dinner guests, Mark couldn’t see them, hear them over the glimmer in Youngjae’s eyes and the hammering of his heart in his chest.

When dinner was finished, the court dispersed into different corners of the palace. Drinks turned from wine to spirits, the laughter from polite to raucous. Youngjae’s smile from gentle to beaming.

Mark sat on the piano bench in a music room as Youngjae played and played for a small gathering of people, watching the way in which the man’s fingers and posture became looser after a few drinks. Listening to all the newest pieces that Youngjae had composed over the past year, traveling and performing and writing all across the world. Each one filling the room with so much depth and emotion that it made Mark feel like the notes were reaching inside and strumming something in him that was dusty and brittle with disuse.

Mark’s eyes raised to the room, watching every small detail that the music seemed to complement. Jackson pulling Alana back into his lap as he refilled her glass. Bambam sneakily tugging Yugyeom by the epulet into the next room. And briefly, like a flicker of a feeling that Mark could barely catch, the room felt empty, substance-less. And then like something habitual, Mark’s gaze searched, shoulders falling when he failed to find Jinyoung amongst the group.

He felt himself rebuke his own frivolous pang of disappointment. Because he knew this wasn’t the type of event the advisor frequented. He knew Jinyoung could only be dragged to the most formal of events when the need for his status called. And he’d always manage to sneak away before the end of the night, finding himself some place quiet to read or do work.

Mark didn’t wish to consider how he knew this.

Youngjae’s song came to an end, holding his hands against the keys and letting them ring with finality. An applause from the room following.

Mark abandoned the place his mind had been wandering to, instead leaning in closer to be heard over the roar of the room. “Where did you write that one?” he asked, feeling his own warm breath against the composer’s cheek.

“Moscow,” Youngjae said, raising his glass off the piano and taking a sip. “I was snowed in with this god awful empress who I couldn’t understand if my life depended on it. And yet, she seemed dead set on taking me to bed.”

“An empress?” Mark’s eyes widened. “Sounds like your type.”

“Hardly,” Youngjae rolled his eyes. “You should have seen me trying to keep her at an arm’s length. It was awful.”

“Mmm,” the King hummed. “Well, then maybe I was the exception.”

Youngjae smiled, “Of course.” He put a hand to Mark’s leg. “You were always the exception.”

Mark felt the rush of it through the fabric of his trousers, eliciting a haze that was from more than just the drinks. He looked up into Youngjae’s lively gaze, licking his lips. “The party is a bit overrated, don’t you think?”

Youngjae’s smile widened. “Completely overrated.”

Mark’s hand came up to Youngjae’s, pulling it higher up his thigh, “Maybe we should find somewhere else then.”

Youngjae looked down, watching his hand creep further up the King’s leg. He gripped his fingers in deep, nodding, “Maybe we should.”

Mark took his hand, intertwining their fingers. Pulling him up and out of the room, going where watchful eyes and whispered gossip could not follow.

The next morning, Mark stumbled down to the office later than he intended. The buttons on his jacket done carelessly and his shirt half untucked, and one stocking dragging down his calf as Bam had not shown up that morning. And Mark was almost sure it had something to do with a certain handsome knight, but that he couldn’t fault him for.

When Mark came in, Jinyoung was already sitting behind the King’s desk. “You are late,” the advisor said without looking up from what he was reading. His voice laced with a bitter edge.

“I can read a clock,” Mark sighed, sitting before him and slinging one leg over the side of the chair.

“We should get started.”

Mark dragged the stocking up his calf, trying to tie it off. “Where were you last night?” he asked, sounding indifferent. “I didn’t see you at the dinner.”

Jinyoung looked up, rich brown eyes suddenly black, frigid as he stared him down. “There was nothing for me there.”

And Mark could hear the bitter pinch that the man was holding on his tongue, but he didn’t have the strength to respectfully address it, to meet it with anything else but the same bitterness. “What do you mean?”

Jinyoung gritted his teeth. “You know what I mean,” he articulated.

Mark huffed under his breath, fixing his cuffs, “Do not hold your tongue now.”

Jinyoung eyes blazed. He took in a seething breath. “ _Every time_ that composer comes back, it’s the same,” he bit out. “You throw a party just so everyone can lean in and watch him play and listen to him talk about all these places and stories and peoples. And you sit on the bench next to him, fawning like a schoolboy.”

“You’re jealous,” Mark said, realizing all at once. His mouth fell open, turning up ever so slightly at the corners. “I don’t get it,” he nearly whispered. “You were never jealous before.”

The anger momentarily drained from him, deadening his eyes. “It was different before.”

“How?”

Jinyoung’s voice went weaker, “You know how.”

Mark did. Because he knew that Jinyoung had never minded sharing him as long as he had him. And even though they both knew, they couldn’t bring themselves to admit that those days were long over. “He is my friend,” Mark shrugged. “He’s fun.”

Jinyoung’s expression did not yield, if anything that heat in him turned on again. Simmering just below the surface. “It’s more than that.”

“It’s not,” Mark shook his head, dismissively.

“You _sleep_ with him,” he hissed.

Mark scoffed, “Jinyoung. It’s nothing.”

Everything about him boiled over, standing to his feet and pounding his fists against the desk and screaming, “Then, why can’t it be nothing with me?!”

Mark met his stance, his volume, leaning across the table, “Because it’s never nothing with you!”

The silence hung heavy in the air, thick and hot and making it hard to breathe as Mark forgot how to look away. How to not see only Jinyoung at the end of his sight. How to not have him anywhere but close. Any way but barely able to breathe.

But once he remembered how, it was all too easy for him to back away. Lower his eyes. “I’m going to take the rest of the day off,” he said, voice not holding any tension in it. Not holding any expression at all. “Send for me if you need me.”

Any attempt to right his clothing was wronged again when he stepped back into his receiving room and Youngjae was waiting on the chaise for him. And they stayed like that until sunset came and they had the piano pushed out onto the balcony, under the orange sherbert clouds. Mark was lying on his back, atop a blanket spread across the lid. He was looking up at the sky, replaying the conversation him and Jinyoung had in the office that morning. But by now, the words had been forgotten. Left only to inaudible murmurs that Mark couldn’t understand. Instead, all he could see was the look of anger upon Jinyoung’s face, fractured and sharp like broken crystal, cutting across his chest as he recalled.

From behind him, Youngjae’s hands walked slowly over the keys, gentle notes ringing out. “What are you looking for tonight?”

Mark watched those orange clouds slowly pass. “I’m not sure,” he whispered.

Youngjae’s fingers continued to languidly move, “May I infer?”

“You may.”

Youngjae transitioned into a piece seamlessly. And the music had that same effect it always did. That same slow crawl up the piano lid into Mark’s ears, making his eyes fall close. The piece was slow and soft. Twinkling with flourishes that Mark could picture Youngjae’s right hand doing with such practiced grace. Mark’s blood stirring in his veins, up into his cheeks until he could feel himself flush. But the music itself wasn’t bashful. No, instead it was sweetly wistful. Forlorn for something unexpressed. Despondently coveting from a distance.

And just as Mark felt like maybe he understood it, Youngjae’s right hand gave its last flourish. Drawn out and faint. Echoing into the dusk air.

“Was that it?” Youngjae whispered, closer to his ear.

Mark opened his eyes, seeing the sky a little darker than it had been before. He blinked, feeling that depth in his soul that the music wasn’t filling anymore. Empty and cold. He sighed. “That was it.” The King turned onto his stomach, chin against his folded hands as he met Youngjae’s eyes. “Where did you write that one?”

Youngjae smiled, hair messy in his eyes and open shirt slipping off his shoulder. “Here,” he nodded. “Right now.”

Mark smiled too. His eyes falling to the leather folder on the music rack. His finger came up, tracing the gilded gold initials across the front. “I can’t believe you still use this.”

“Of course,” Youngjae laughed. “I’ve never played a show without it. It’s my good luck charm. From my favorite royal.”

Mark looked up at him, seeing all that warm strength, that undying fearlessness in him. “I missed you.”

Youngjae smirked, licking his lips. “Indulge me,” he said, leaning closer. “Tell me what you missed most.”

“You just,” Mark thought with a deep sigh. “You always treat me as if I am just a person. I nearly forget my title when I’m with you.”

Youngjae’s brows came together in confusion. “You _are_ just a person,” he frowned, reaching out to lift the King’s chin. He shook his head, “It’s not your fault you were born into the life you were.”

Mark felt the sting of his eyes and it surprised him. It had been a long time since he’d cried in front of someone. Since he felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable, to not have to play the part of a stoic king. “And yet,” he tried to swallow it down, tightly smiling instead. “It’s a mistake I pay for everyday.”

Youngjae’s frown deepened. He let go of Mark’s chin, hands bracing against the piano’s rim as he started to climb up. His bare feet pressing into the keys in a smattering of discordant notes. He lay down on the blanket next to Mark, relocating a hand to the King’s hip to turn him gently until their faces were closely aligned.

“Mark,” he said, his tone serious, direct along with his eyes. “You _need_ to find happiness,” he urged. “Whatever happiness could mean for you, you need to find it.”

The King was quick to smile. “Happiness is this fleeting moment I have with you,” he said, dismissively. “Not much different than that flash of green just as the sun dips below the horizon, right?”

Youngjae breathed, face staying firm. “You and I both know why that is,” he nodded. “Because I am but a flash. A fleeting moment. A break from the daily routine. That’s how you can justify this. Because if it wasn’t for my impermanence, you’d stay just as far from me as you do the others.”

Mark stared at him, not having the conviction to lie, to tell him he’s wrong. Instead, he bit his lip, feeling that sting in his eyes again. “You’re not like them,” he whispered, hand reaching up to tuck the composer’s dark hair behind his ear.

“I know,” Youngjae said, eyes going somber. “Because I never had the hope of sharing forever with you.”

Mark huffed, a sad little laugh on his own behalf. “I gave up the hope of sharing forever with anyone long ago,” he shook his head.

“Aren’t you a king? Don’t you make the rules around here.”

Mark narrowed his eyes, “I do not like your tone.”

“Why?” Youngjae’s eyes widened, mocking. “Because it contains the prick of truth?”

Mark did not laugh. “A king cannot rewrite history,” he offered. “Or change the hearts and minds of the people. Or keep them from talking if they knew.”

“They knew before,” Youngjae insisted with a smile. “They whispered about the boys you imparted your fondness upon. What would be so different now?”

Mark felt exhausted by his own defenses, but continued to push the same narrative. “I was a prince then. Behaving as a prince would. Reckless and selfish. And that was maybe acceptable then,” he laid on his back, looking up at the sky and only seeing the threat of darkness now. “But a king is held to a higher standard. And that’s not how a king should behave. That’s what my father taught me.”

“Maybe your father was wrong,” Youngjae said. “Maybe love is what a king needs. Maybe love can make him stronger for his people.”

Mark tried not to think about those stories Jinyoung had told him long ago of who his father had been before he was a king. Instead, he huffed, “For an anti-monarchist, you sure pretend to know a lot about royalty.”

Youngjae was quiet for a moment, pensive and watching Mark’s profile. “You told me once before that you were never afforded the luxury of being able to find what you love.” He reached out drawing Mark’s eyes towards him again. “But I think you never had to look for it. It was always right in front of you.”

Mark looked at him, confusion creasing his brows together.

Youngjae’s teeth showed through in a gentle smile that went all the way to his eyes. “There’s been someone in that window watching us for a while now,” he beckoned with a small nod of his head.

Mark did not turn his head, but nevertheless, his eyes flicked up, looking to the windows above them. And in the window he knew to be that of the library, he could have sworn he saw the outline of a man behind the flutter of a white curtain.

“Should I kiss you here?” Youngjae giggled into his ear. “Just to make him jealous?”

“No,” Mark shook his head. “That will just make him pout more.”

“I have a feeling that what would make him pout less would make you pout less as well.”

Mark thought back to Jinyoung’s aggression. One intense emotion in place of another. Never acknowledging what still festered between them. And never finding any solution for it. Because if Youngjae and Jinyoung were right, if love could make kings stronger, then what he had with Jinyoung couldn’t have been love. Because he couldn’t feel any strength, only weakness at the very mention of him.

“To hell with him,” Mark surrendered under that weakness, leaning in to meet Youngjae’s mouth with his. Kissing him long and hard enough that there was a fraction of a time where Mark could picture someone else.

When Youngjae pulled away, there was no mistaking the way Mark’s eyes fell to the window above before even going to the composer’s face. But even when he did, there was nothing more than a flutter of white curtains anymore.

When it was time for Youngjae to go, Mark held his hand, walking him down to his carriage. Not so different from how it used to be.

“Where to next?” he asked, fingers tangling as they made their way out to the courtyard.

“Singapore,” he smiled.

“I hear the weather stays warm all year long there.”

“I’ll write you when I arrive and let you know.”

Mark drew his hand up, kissing at his knuckles, “I will look forward to it.”

Youngjae stopped, his hands tracing up to either side of Mark’s face. Eyes penetrating deeply. “You know, I’ve had the privilege of meeting a lot of people in the last few years. Both royal and common. And none of them have cared as much as you do about being good at what you do. And none of them have been willing to sacrifice what you have with the hope of being the best for your people.”

Mark felt himself melt between his hands. The praise rare to his ears. “Maybe that makes me foolish then,” he said, leaning his cheek into Youngjae’s touch and already missing it.

“No,” Youngjae shook his head. “It makes you kind,” he kissed his cheek. “And hardworking,” he kissed the other. “And strong,” he kissed his forehead. “And perfect,” he whispered against his mouth, before kissing him just as sweetly as he played. “King or not.”

When he pulled away, Mark was left emptier again, holding his breath and slowly opening his eyes to look into the man’s face one last time.

“Until next time,” Youngjae nodded. “Good night, Mark.”

The King released his breath, even emptier. “Good night, Youngjae.”

* * *

**So if past be prologue...**

There were inevitable mistakes. There were nights like the one when Youngjae’s carriage drove away and Mark was left to walk sleepless through the palace on his own. And on nights like this one, he was never quite sure how his tired feet always seemed to mindlessly take him to Jinyoung’s chamber.

There were nights they didn't speak about the job. Where they didn’t even speak at all. They didn’t speak when Jinyoung answered the door at Mark’s knock. They didn’t speak when the advisor would lean in the doorway, looking at the King with a breaking of softness in his eyes that Mark figured must have been similar to a crashing wave. They didn’t speak when Mark nudged him through the door, their lips sealing tight to keep the words from slipping out. They didn’t even speak when the linen was hanging off, shoes cast off in a stumble. Unless speaking could be something that wasn’t words. Something that was gasping and panting and whimpering and keeping their eyes locked when their lips weren’t.

In fact, they didn’t speak until Mark was pulling his shoes on at the edge of the bed and Jinyoung reached out, grasping his shoulder with that same softness that had been in his eyes, his moans.

“Don’t,” Mark murmured, pulling away from his touch. He stood up, looking back for a moment before he stopped, accidentally getting trapped up in the hurt in Jinyoung’s eyes. And he himself didn’t say anything more. He couldn’t. And yet, he couldn’t bear to look away.

Jinyoung shook his head, mouth falling open. “I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered. Candlelight bouncing off the planes of his face, tilted upwards. “I can’t keep being a place to fall back to when it all seems too much. I can’t have you once or twice a year just to relive losing you _again and again. Every single time._ ”

Mark didn’t speak. He didn’t know how.

Jinyoung stood up, crossing over to him. “I’m not just some relic of a past you wish you were still living in,” he said, reaching up to hold the King’s face. “I’m here. I’m now. Let me be that for you.”

Mark’s breath seized up in his lungs. “Jinyoung-”

“Don’t call my name like that,” the advisor shook his head. “Don’t call my name like it’s a curse.”

The King’s eyes searched his features. Feeling overwhelmed with the closeness of his body, his words. The blunt intensity he wasn’t hiding. He gulped, “Then how shall I call your name?”

“Like a prayer,” Jinyoung said, slipping his warm hand up Mark’s neck. “A vow. So that when you call my name, it’s not because the night is dark, but because I’m like the stars that you see the hope of dawn in.”

Mark felt himself shiver at his touch, trapped up still in the man’s eyes. Seeing all that heady darkness there that had part of him wanting to fall back into his bed and never leave. “Jinyoung,” he breathed.

Jinyoung’s eyes flickered. Sparkling with that clarity of the stars that refused to be hidden in the night sky. So beautiful.

But that part of Mark, that spoke of duty and honor and grieved from losses still missed. That picked at his own wounds till they wouldn’t heal. That part spoke so much louder. “Let me leave,” he said, with all the resoluteness of a sovereign monarch.

Jinyoung’s face crumbled, eyes dulling until they seemed to fade into the blackness. He stepped back, letting go. “No,” he said, turning away. “I’ll leave.”

* * *

**...then I shall request a happy end.**

The King was the one who was early to the office the next morning, perhaps from the restless sleep he’d had the night before. He sat at his desk trying to focus on procedural notes Bambam had written up about the upcoming state dinner, but his mind kept getting lost, floating off somewhere distant as he watched the pocket watch against his desk tick by, closer and closer to two raised arms at mid-day.

When his advisor did come in, his eyes were on the floor, books and documents under his arm. Hurrying into the room and shutting the door behind him. “My apologies,” he murmured, taking a seat and straightening his coat.

Mark sat staring, seeing the unkemptness of his dark hair, the slightest shadow of stubble on his face. Wondering momentarily if his night had been just as restless. “For?”

Jinyoung looked back, holding his gaze carefully as he smoothed a hand through his hair. Holding something right behind his lips. “For my lack of punctuality this morning,” he said, but the words seemed stiff, in place of something else.

Mark’s mouth tightened into a firm line, unsure what answer he’d been longing for. “It’s fine.”

Jinyoung flipped a file open in his lap with a deep breath, “Shall I give you your daily brief then?”

Mark nodded, “Go ahead.”

Jinyoung cleared his throat, starting, “I’ve been preparing the documents for my absence later this week-”

The King’s eyebrows knit together. “Where are you going?” he asked, perhaps too quickly.

Jinyoung looked up, round eyes seeming to search for something in Mark’s face. Body language weaving in and out of certainty and uncertainty. “The General asked me to go to the southern coast in your absence. To meet the refugee party when they make landfall.”

Mark’s mouth went dry. “Are you-” he stuttered through the words. “Are you certain you want to attend?”

“Someone ought to,” he nodded. “It’s important. Our alliance. What you’ve graciously offered to their refugees. An act of diplomacy unlike this county has ever seen.”

“I know it’s important,” Mark winced. “But maybe, _you_ don’t have to go. Maybe we can send Yugyeom. Or Jackson. Someone else.”

“Why?” Jinyoung asked with the slightest narrowing of his eyes. “Why don’t you want me to go?” And there was something so sure in his voice, like he already knew the answer.

Mark couldn’t hold his eyes, darting back down to his desk, picking up a quill just to busy his hands. “It’s not-,” he stopped himself, trying to find a palatable excuse. “There’s work to be done,” he settled on.

“Hence the paperwork I’ve prepared. So that you can do work without me.”

Mark groaned, pinching his nose bridge for a moment to keep from getting heated. “You have a high position,” he argued, forcibly softening his tone. “A critical one. And I… the country. It can’t afford to lose you.”

His advisor stared him down. That indignant expression he kept when they both knew that Mark was evading truth. “I’m going home to the south,” he said, firmly. “I need some time away. To think.”

And it shouldn’t have hurt. For Jinyoung to refer to the south as his home. Not this palace where he’d lived well over a decade. Not at Mark’s side. “To think about what?”

Jinyoung went silent, that expression only intensifying with every thoughtless question, every careless excuse Mark posed.

Mark tried to breathe, feeling pinned under his gaze. Like Jinyoung could see everything he was so desperately trying to avoid voicing. He wrapped his fingers against the edge of the desk. “I don’t like it, Jinyoung,” he said, more honest and plain that anything else he’d managed.

Jinyoung looked at him, softening just an ounce. Somewhere in his eyes. Letting them twinkle unconsciously. Voice going softer when he spoke. “Then, come with me.”

Mark’s wrapping stopped, everything stopped. “What?” he blinked, thinking he must have misheard him.

Jinyoung leaned forward onto the King’s desk. “Come with me to the coast,” he said, reaching for Mark’s hand. Letting their fingers fold together. “You’ll see that it’s safe. You’ll see that nothing can hurt us.”

Mark couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. Mind reeling back to dark and humid stables. Riding through the dawn light. Panicked voices. Bended knees. Falling tears. Forged distances.

“Stop thinking about the past,” Jinyoung whispered, shaking his head. “It’s not now. It’s not the same.”

Mark felt a prick of shame. From how Jinyoung unmasked his very thoughts, his fears. How he’d always seen so much deeper than anyone else even cared to look. But Mark hadn’t willingly invited him there and the easy way in which he pulled the King apart left him feeling grossly overexposed. Desperate to hide behind anything he could.

He pulled his hand from Jinyoung’s grasp, clearing his throat and picking up a piece of paper from his desk just to busy his hands and eyes. “I’ll expect your notes of absence soon,” he said, not looking up. “Enjoy your trip, Jinyoung.”

Mark didn’t raise his eyes again until he was sure that the advisor was gone. Until time seemed to unfreeze and the breaths seemed to flow easier again. He looked to Jinyoung’s chair across from him. Eyes panning down to a book in the man’s place.

Mark’s mouth fell open, about to call out, but he resealed it, knowing Jinyoung was already out of earshot. He rose from behind his desk, plucking the book from the chair. It was navy blue, but there were no gilded words across the cover or down the spine. Nothing to distinguish it at all.

He looked up at the door, not hearing any footsteps beyond it. He carefully peeled back the cover, seeing that it wasn’t a book at all, but a journal. The handwritten lines inscribed in perfect penmanship, a testament to a top tier education. Mark’s finger traced down the page, shiny black ink gathering in the groves of his fingerprint. Unsure of what he would find, before his eyes unexpectedly caught on his own name.

_Mark has had an affinity for that gold pocket watch as of late. The one with a hare engraved on the front. I can’t decide if he most cherishes the hare or that it belonged to his grandfather. He checks it nearly manically. Making sure the clock is wound just as accurately as the one in the foyer. Makes me wonder if he was always so preoccupied with time. Where it was going, if he was getting the most of it, what it all meant._

_But then again, I remember that he was happiest when he wasn’t having to consider the passage of time at all. Long before that pocket watch came into his possession from his father’s will. And though the anxiety had always been a flicker in his wild eyes, now it is reflected in that shiny gold, everpresent. Compulsively tinkering with all the frantic energy of a frightened hare. Like maybe he’s trying to master time itself._

Mark could hear Jinyoung’s timbre in his ears, deep and warm with every pretty word. Remembering those nights that he’d read to him with such sudden fondness that he felt warmer everywhere. He continued to trace his fingertip down the page, finding his name again.

_Mark didn’t eat lunch again today. He thought no one would notice, but I saw him leaving his plate for a palace dog before rushing to meet Lord Umberlyn. Sometimes, I think it’s his own nerves that make it hard for him to eat. Sometimes, I think it’s something greater._

_Even the most selfish parts of him aren’t actually selfish at all. They are born from some innate desire to make others happy. It’s difficult to dissect how it started. A trait from his mother or a stern lesson from his father. An experimental push and pull of his own charms that began when he was old enough to flirt, to fluster, to impress those who were lucky enough. But the older he got, the less performative it became. As if he had tricked himself into thinking that happiness wasn’t something for him alone, but an obligation towards those around him. And as the years have passed, I’ve seen that altruistic idea of happiness drain so much out of him. As the veil between performance and duty has worn too thin._

_But I do wonder sometimes, most often when I shouldn’t, what he’d selfishly desire for himself. What he’d fight for. Not because it was the right thing to do, not because it was what others expected from him, but because he himself had an unsettled craving that was deeper than anyone could imagine. What would he yearn for if he wasn’t so scared of yearning, of getting?_

_~~But then again, perhaps it’s best I don’t know. For learning that it was something else, someone else, would likely break me.~~ _

Mark blinked, trying to comprehend. And not in the typical sense of comprehension. Because the words were all there. Strung together coherently indeed. Stretched out into sentences, paragraphs. Yet it was hard to even fathom their patterns. Hard to envision the intent, the motivation behind them.

Mark closed the journal, having half a mind to place it back into that chair and walk away. Pretend that ignorance was indeed bliss. But in a moment of overly curious weakness, he clutched it to his chest, hurrying down the palace halls towards his chamber in hopes that he didn’t meet any eyes.

The spring sun was bright on his balcony. Illuminating every page he flipped through. The crisp breeze and the sounds of the garden below complimenting every word as the King’s eyebrows and knees drew up in such precise concentration that the ambiance of his surroundings barely registered. He was engrossed, unable to put it down. Reading one entry after the other of Jinyoung’s curious musings. Some intent with detail and narrative while others ruminated, ideas as vast as endless flower fields and as deep as unseen oceans. And by the time Mark had arrived to the last inscribed page, he felt the sinking of his stomach at the finality of it all. The lack of resolution left in further empty pages that were never penned.

_I can’t do this anymore. Live my days like a star who's centered around his position. Watching him look up from where he stands with planted feet as I try to ignore every other star vying for the chance to glimmer in his eyes._

_I don’t think like that anymore. At least I try not to. And I don’t love him anymore. At least I try not to._

_The stars. Too many to count. But he doesn’t look to them with anything more than a passing glance and a tight smile. No, he never allows himself to be seen for what he is, for what I already know him to be. Never allows me to offer any warmth or light. Instead, he is content on staying cold, on wandering the darkness alone. As if it is what he deserves. As if it’s all he ever deserved, convinced his past and the fondness of those around him is now just some illusion, a dream that he’s awoken from._

_But how can I tell him that I’m not some passing dream in a long and endless night? Not a nightmare nor a fantasy. That I can be something enduring past dawn light. Something content on shining in his sky if only to ease the visibility of his path. To expose the pinpoints of his smile. To not leave him so cloaked in eternal black. How can I…_

The page seemed to run on with empty space until Mark turned it.

_Perhaps, I have overstayed my welcome. Perhaps, it’s time I find a new constellation._

“Your Majesty.”

Mark sat up in his seat, looking up to see his staff member leaning over the doorway of his balcony. “Yes?” he said, closing the book and placing it behind his back with no subtlety.

“You didn’t appear at dinner,” the man said. “Shall I have it brought to your chamber?”

Mark looked out towards the gardens, noting the dying light of dusk draping over the landscape. Not even sure when the sun had set. When the darkness had begun to surround him. “Yes,” he nodded. “Bring it here.”

Mark didn’t eat. Instead, he kept thinking, reading that final page. Wondering if Jinyoung had meant it. What he’d written, what he’d said in the office that morning. Terrified by the intrusive image of Jinyoung leaving for the southern coast and never returning.

The whole idea made Mark feel feverish, trembling with sudden chills despite the doors of the balcony being shut tight to keep the evening draft out. It made him pace his floors, keeping that journal tight between his fingers. Thinking and thinking and thinking.

And perhaps it wasn’t surprising at all when the restless pacing around his chambers turned to pacing around the palace halls. Turned to pacing up to Jinyoung’s door. Knuckles hovering for just a moment before he wrapped them against the wood.

When the door opened, Jinyoung’s expression read only as surprised, wide eyed and beautiful in his night clothes. But just as quick, his eyes glazed over, vacancy plaguing those same features as he cinched his robe tighter, fitting himself tightly in the doorway and blocking off any route for Mark to nudge through. “What are you doing here?” he sighed, exasperated.

Mark held up the navy journal, “You left this in the office this morning.”

Jinyoung’s surprise was there again, the line between his shoulders tightening as his eyes locked on the journal between Mark’s fingers. He watched it for a long moment, gulping before he stepped aside.

Mark came in, tossing the journal to the man’s desk. “Tell me,” he commanded. “What is that book? What are you writing about me?”

Jinyoung leaned up against the door, unwilling to take a step forward. Biting at his lips and letting his heavy gaze meet Mark’s. “They are my journals,” he said, so softly that it was nearly inaudible.

Mark stepped closer. “Journals?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “There’s more than one?”

Jinyoung’s eyes flashed with guilt as bypassed Mark, going to his cabinet along the wall and pulling the double doors open. Just behind them, shelf after shelf was lined with blue books. Jinyoung stood to the side, looking back at the King.

Anything accusatory in Mark gave way to awe. The shelves pulling him closer, mesmerized by the neat rows of navy. What he could only imagine was nearly a hundred of them. He reached forward, feeling at the unmarked spines. Flooding with questions. Gasping out the words, “How long-”

“Fifteen years. Since I came here.”

Mark looked over at him. “It’s… always about me?”

Jinyoung nodded, dark eyes deepened with exaggerated vulnerability. “Always.”

Mark tried to breathe, chest fluttering with a deep intake. “Why?”

Jinyoung’s eyes wouldn’t relent, wouldn’t sever their locked gaze. His throat bobbed, eyes glossing in the lamplight. “Can I…” he fought through the audible thickness of his throat. “Can I read to you?”

Mark felt the skittish flutter of his heart, his nerves. He hadn’t heard those words in ages. And they made past feelings, past desires, swell up inside of him and crash down. Only able to liken the feeling to that of the amorphous waves he dreamed of. He went to the chair in the corner of the bedroom, slowly sitting himself in front of it.

Jinyoung brushed over the spines on the shelf until he pulled a specific volume. Bringing it to the chair and taking a seat, licking fingertips to find the page he was looking for. And when he did, he let his eyes cast down to Mark at his feet.

Mark watched, cheek leaning in to meet the inside of Jinyoung’s knee. He nodded against it.

Jinyoung took a deep breath, looking to the page.

“I could rewrite history until my dying breath,  
Until my fingers are so worn and stained that the ink will not lift,  
Desperate to recount each and every multitude in you.  
But selfishly, I will not.  
Instead, I will hold it close, hold you close.  
Because if you are the ocean,  
Always wide open and giving so much of yourself away,  
Inciting freedom and hope in all who bear witness,  
Well, then I want to be the one to walk your shores,  
Barefoot, feeling my way around your murky parts,  
Eyes drawn away from your blinding gleam that mesmerizes all those who look upon you.  
And the pieces of you,  
Like mattified sea glass tumbled smooth by your waves,  
Overlooked by those who stay transfixed, dazzled by your surface,  
Those pieces I will collect, I will rinse clean, I will polish,  
And I will bury them away where no one can find them.  
Because those pieces of you,  
Those hidden treasures begging to be discovered, seen,  
I will keep, selfishly,  
Just for myself.”

Mark felt the ache of his chest at the sound of Jinyoung’s voice. So warm and deep as he read in perfect cadence.

The man sealed his languid mouth, sealed the book in his hands. Eyes casting back down to Mark in nervous anticipation.

“You never mention my title,” he said. “I read that journal cover to cover and you never once spoke of the crown.”

Jinyoung’s face softened, a gentle smile layered somewhere deep beneath. His hand came up, cradling Mark’s chin. Thumb dragging across his lower lip. “There will be endless books about King Mark,” he whispered. “I wanted there to be at least one on the Mark I’m privileged enough to know. The one I never stopped loving.”

Jinyoung’s face blurred behind the tears in Mark’s eyes as he slowly raised himself up off the floor, crawling on hands and knees up into Jinyoung’s lap. Splayed fingers gripping into the man’s thighs as Mark leaned in to meet his lips.

“Mark,” Jinyoung breathed, putting a hand to his chest.

And when the King looked back, he could see the deep hurt that had replaced that pure affection.

The man shook his head. “Please, don’t,” he whispered. “Not if we’ll just have to pretend nothing happened tomorrow.”

Mark didn’t think twice. He grabbed Jinyoung’s hand from his chest, pulling it away as he leaned in again. He kissed him. Softness on softness. Going so slowly that he could feel all those minute details he’d missed savoring. The gentle press of Jinyoung’s lips, the warmth of his body heat, the care in every fingertip as his hands smoothed up his hips, his waist.

When they pulled away, Mark’s eyes searched Jinyoung’s face. Seeing the brightness of his hopeful eyes. Painted with so many questions, yet struggling to address any of them.

Mark’s breath was shaky, nervous and rattling his chest. “I can’t give you all of me,” he breathed.

Jinyoung’s eyes widened, catching onto that hopefulness in Mark’s voice. “I’d never ask for all of you,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I just ask that you don’t give it all to _them._ The nation. The world. History itself.” His fingers held Mark’s body closer, tighter. Eyes so vivid and intent as he spoke. “Because they can never appreciate you, need you, the way I do,” he pleaded. “So please. Save a piece of yourself. Just for me.”

Mark felt the warmth seep through from Jinyoung’s touch, up his back and his shoulders. Sinking in just as deeply as his words. Mark felt the small smile pulling at his mouth. “Okay,” he surrendered without a fight.

Jinyoung blinked, “Okay?”

Mark’s smile widened in confirmation enough.

Jinyoung breathed, rushing in to kiss him again. To clumsily push him to the floor and crawl over him, folding fingers together and pinning his hands to the rug as he sat in his lap. “I love you,” he said, kissing him again and again. Frenzied and elated. “I should have shouted it a million times before. I should have-”

“Jinyoung,” Mark pulled away, smiling up at him. Time slowing again as every small thought and action felt magnified. Sweeping a piece of hair from his handsome face. Feeling the rush of fearlessness that Mark hadn’t known in years. Promising himself he’d never lose it again. Because he didn’t need to damn them to darkness any longer.

“I love you too,” he said. And the weight lifted from his chest. The one that had been lingering since they’d first walked the palace halls together. Since Jinyoung had first cured Mark’s restlessness with his kiss.

Mark’s fingers found their way into the tie at Jinyoung’s waist, pulling away the silk and the linen from his frame. Slower this time as he let himself enjoy every moment. As not just a means to an end but, instead, as a new beginning. Both of them reciprocating striations of fierceness and gentleness. Jinyoung’s tongue trailed down the knots of his spine, biting down on his shoulder when it got too much. The slow rock of Mark’s hips, growing brutal when he couldn’t help it anymore.

And when they both exhausted every last inch of themselves, Mark lay his head upon Jinyoung’s chest. Just as eager to not do anything at all. Just as eager to sleep against his skin and dream of crashing waves. Of their fingers tightly intertwined. Of a whole ocean at their feet. And sleep they did.

“Wake up, my king,” Jinyoung whispered in his ear when the room began to flood with the pink light. His voice was warm and familiar and comforting in just as many ways as the dawn. “We have work to do.”

Mark groaned, nuzzling deeper into his chest. “It’s too early,” he murmured against his skin. “Have them bring the work to us.”

At the King’s request, they surrounded themselves in papers brought in from their office by the staff, balancing tea cups on books and criss-crossed knees as they sorted through everything.

“We can’t make a habit of this,” Jinyoung said, taking a sip of tea.

“Why not?” Mark smirked, leaning closer to place a hand on his thigh.

“Because,” Jinyoung said, meeting his smirk with a kiss. “I’m not sure we’d be very effective at running a country in our nightclothes.”

Mark laughed, nose crinkling up. “Maybe we need a different space, then?” he suggested. “A cottage? On the palace grounds? I know a good place to start.”

Jinyoung’s eyes twinkled, stars outshining stars despite the absence of night. “Mark,” he breathed, shaking his head.

Mark basked in the twinkling, eager to capture all of his light. “Consider it a repayment.”

“For what?”

Mark shrugged, pulling away to absentmindedly shuffle the papers. “I’ll be requesting your assistance later,” he said.

Jinyoung leaned into his side, pressing slow kisses into the crux of his neck. Smiling against the skin, “May I ask Your Majesty why?”

Mark’s shoulder pulled at the sensation. Giggling and pushing a hand against Jinyoung’s chest to see his eyes. Yearning to see him in the crystal clarity of dawn. He drew in a deep breath, “I need your help. Packing for the southern coast.”

Jinyoung went still at the end of Mark’s hand, pulse quickening beneath the linen. So shocked that the smile on his handsome face staled, expression glazing over.

Mark felt the contented flutter of his stomach. “We have an ocean to see,” he smiled, fingers twisting into the fabric. “We have waves to hear,” he said, pulling him in to kiss him. Whispering against his mouth, “You and I have waited long enough, do you not agree?”

Jinyoung’s breath was shuttered against his lips. “Yes, I agree,” he said, kissing the King so forcefully that they toppled over, papers crunching beneath them with little care.

“For your sake,” Mark murmured. “I pray you haven’t exaggerated it.”

“I have not,” Jinyoung shook his head, noses brushing as his smile stretched on like an endless horizon. “I can promise you’ll love it.”

Mark could almost hear the crashing in his ears, clearer than ever before. As if Jinyoung was transposing it straight from his own memories. And it was beautiful and it was shared and it was them. “With you by my side, I know I will.”


End file.
